Sacraments

Cooking is a sacred act.

I have not cooked for anyone in years.

I have been a woman excommunicated,

exiled from my own humanity.

No one breaks bread at this table, 

no one sleeps in this bed,

no one wakes to roses,

and the scent of cinnamon,

and blackberries 

in a bowl on the kitchen table.

No one showers while I drink coffee on Sunday morning.

This body, my body,

is broken like bread,

is made holy by your hands,

is made sacred with your mouth.

Your lips, my sacraments,

like the berries in the bowl,

fill my mouth with the divine.

Your breath warms me,

like the breath of God,

breathing life into this body.

Your hands bless me,

your touch makes me human,

makes me woman,

restores me to communion,

with God.