Red Mass

In a red church in a sea

of black and white, she

stands before an altar,

its white cloth stained

by centuries of spilled

wine, red, but it’s

the only cloth they have.

She kneels to receive

the host, wafered white,

and tastes the red hand

of God, fingers sifting

the burning sand around

a burning bush. She

watches the priest’s hand

shake as he lifts the chalice,

once again spilling the wine,

red, on the white cloth,

stained. Only then does she

see his bleeding hands,

tastes blood.

Over at T.S. Poetry Press, the theme for February is red. To see links to more poems (red ones), visit the T.S. Poetry page on Facebook.

Photograph: Red Church in Teplice, by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.