Transubstantiation

then

there is little glory

under this high holy host,

the silent eye of the moon; tethered

here by a tiny pincer, your body floats just

above your dull ache; the child that grows steadily

in your arms will wrest away from you in time; the distance

between you will expand the space between earth & moon to an

unheard sigh in a quiet night when you are no longer called for—

you too ate of your mother here in this worn wicker chair, the white

paint yellowed & peeling; here her body became your body, your

neurons cutting new unseen starscapes of the unknown world within

you; young cells dividing, ancient atoms collecting anew—you too

desire desiccation to fill a thirsty cup & bare your tender flesh,

ever fortified by the pale eye that does not see what you’ve

given & the cold empty sky that has always

swallowed our sacrifice

—Sarah Yost