Last Communion

Here I am, kneeling again before a man
who tells me I can be holy while insisting that nothing
is permanent, not even my precious sins.
I am washed in the blood, longing for something sacred,
tongue hanging over my bottom lip like a dog.

I like to read between the lines of obituaries, try
to guess what their family members left out on purpose.
You can tell a lot by what isn’t there. For example,
vague obit of healthy teenager: death by overdose,
50-year-old mom who was a brave warrior: breast cancer,
30-year-old male, donations to NAMI in lieu of flowers: suicide.

My sister was an asshole, and now she’s dead.
Though her life ended at 37, I wrote her eulogy
as though she died at age nine,
because that was the last time she wasn’t an asshole,
and I wanted to say something true
without pissing everyone off.

Here’s the thing–if all we have to do to erase
our gravest mistakes is take communion or stop breathing
one day, what is keeping us from making them all,
from relishing each one, knowing in the end,
they will not define us?

When I die, please tell everyone the truth about me.
That I walked around this place believing
I was a little better than most. That twice I turned away
from true love out of pride, revered books more
than men. That I did, in fact, have a favorite child.

While you’re at it, reveal this truth about us all—
that each of us has secrets we take to the grave,
things we want to admit, but are certain no one wants to hear.
Tell them that the very last time I ever took communion,
I closed my lips around the priest’s finger, let him
feel my hot tongue against his skin. And he let me.