I tried to give up wanting men
for Lent many times. Once,
I forgot to stop fasting when it didn’t work.
He rose, bedhead halo
only ever seen by first light but more sacred for it.
I basked and failed in sight of him.
I ate nothing.
I did not see myself becoming
less to see, less seen.
The tomb was empty
as I was without appetite,
and as likely a place. Once,
my only meal was the Body of Christ and still I hungered
for his body. It was the wrong miracle.
Years have passed and
I have given up giving up. I give to. I receive.
I eat.
I do not need to be told
gently that God would have me burn.
I know. I need only to be able to write
He held out his hand
and I put my fingers through it
as memoir.
