All the way to Elizabeth
and in the months afterward
she wove him, pondering,
“this is my body, my blood!
“Beneath the watching eyes
of donkey, ox, and sheep
she rocked him crooning
“this is my body, my blood!”
In the search for her young lost boy
and the foreboding day of his leaving
she let him go , knowing
“This is my body, my blood!”
Under the blood smeared cross
she rocked his mangled bones,
re-membering him, moaning,
“This is my body, my blood!”
When darkness, stones , and tomb
bloomed to Easter morning,
She ran to him shouting,
“this is my body, my blood!”
And no one thought to tell her:
“Woman, it is not fitting
for you to say those words.
You don’t resemble him.”
NOTE: A Eucharistic poem by Roman Catholic Sister Irene Zimmerman.
Persona 