communion

i want a do-over

a do-new

this time, no mr. or mrs.

straight is a mathematical term

and check my algorithm

is so dirty you wouldn’t

kiss your mothers with that

mouth

 

 

i see an afro-future

michael brown in stained glass

writ: this is my body which is broken for you

above the prostrate heads of

white sin

 

 

across the ocean, on the Vatican throne, a

gray-haired woman sits with the body-memory

of rape while men kiss the ring on her hand

 

 

i hear the shifting signal loud,

a DIGIT ALL hymn of human

possibility singing for

psychedelic nuns

 

 

cocks are just big pussies

and everyone knows that

they who rise, rise faster than

him who strives for more of what was

 

 

this is the transubstantiation

wafers melting on the tongue

while women bleed on the altar

the fecund gift of their wombs

 

 

this is the fruit of severed chains

i cry for the joy of it and for the wonder

of the hard ground on my knees as

i pray to the many, so blessed, so free

 

 

Laura Jean Moore’s poetry, essays, and stories have been featured in VICE, [PANK], the EEEL, FLUX WEEKLY, ENTROPY, the Brooklyn Rail, Corium, the Cobalt Review, and Change Seven, where she is a monthly columnist. She is currently an assistant editor at NOON and is the sole curator of the LJ Algorithm. laurajeanmoore.com

 

Featured image © Natasha Marin “The Grand Palace and The Emerald Buddha Temple, Bangkok”