Friday Night Communion under a Mirrored Ceiling
by James R. Whitley
Believe in the parables of gold
and of wings flooding the sky,
the host whispered in her open ears.
Let me lay my hands
on your needy vessel.
Let me ease your suffering.
Her entire being trembled with
equal amounts of hope and fear,
with thoughts of fire,
and still more fire.
Open your lips and take me in,
he urged.
Taken by the incense
of his words, his voice,
she surrendered there—
something like light
blooming inside her,
something like organ music
sweetening the air.