Atomic Jesus

Every Wednesday in the living room,

despite the tremors and riot-noise of the week,

we come to communion. How it all started,

around the table. After a meal.

This week, there’s no bread in the house.

We cut up gingerbread men

this is the body

but I’m allergic to wheat so I’m left

with a salted caramel ice cream bar

as the closest thing to Jesus.

I stand and say the words

I’ve heard from my father.

And on the night he was to be betrayed

Jesus took bread and he broke it

saying this is my body

I sink my teeth into the ice cream.

How do we know what Jesus is?

What particles he’s made of?

Is he the bread, made that first

communion night? Did he sneak downstairs

and stick his hand in the oven, letting

skin bake into the crust? Let’s break Jesus down

to atoms, see what we find.

Forgive us our sins.

What we’ve done. What we might do.

Jesus might be in the ice cream—

atomized Jesus squished between sugar

and cold, Jesus the swirl of caramel

around my teeth. Human teeth that can

bite. Teeth that can bare in hatred. Jesus

in every swallow. Jesus the next breath.

Jesus in the crowd across the street. In a courtroom.

On stage. At the park. In the valley. In

a sweatshop. In the morgue. At the hospital.

In the sky, in a fighter jet. On a dropped

bomb. In a wasteland. At the bottom

of a cross.

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