What I really need to know is how the callouses
blossomed on your fingers. I want to feel
the bristle of your beard on my cheek,
place my hands around the feet
of the man who feeds. You know
why I’ve come here: to make the impossible
become miraculous, to turn your vengeance
into grace, to learn the difference between bread
and sustenance, to be the bride for whom you’ll die.
How can you bear to know these things?
Who can accept this? Lord, to whom can we go?
Give me this bread in flesh and blood always.
(I think I like this version better, but since it is late and it is draft two, I decided to save both.)