Squinting at a jar of pickles
the unbeliever wonders what is true,
if a unique blend of spices indeed awaits him.

He knows what to do, which of the can opener’s ends
will pry the metal lid, spirit escaping.
Therein: bodies and juice.

In the priest’s white-fingered pinch
the wafer used to look full of promise,
unleavened by doubt or brine.

Its taste was paper on which to write
every frailty, another chance for good
to sustain his mazy journey.

Those days have turned to pulp.
His eyes can see what fruit this once was,
his mouth ready to recognize every flavor

men he’s never known have written.
Dill and pepper, vinegar from a martyr’s lips
will not fail to bless this day.