Get Lit Open Mic Sunday at Aunties

Today I read at Get Lit Open Mic Community reading. I noticed they were recording everyone on video, and hope it will be available to the public.

I met new people and saw ones I knew. It was a great community turn out writers of all genres and ideas.

One of My Poems I read at Spokane Get Lit Community Open Mic Poetry at Auntie's

My Grandmother Takes Me to Church, I Have my First Communion

I am seven years old.

My favorite movie is Excalibur

and I want to drink from the Grail.

We all get down

on our knees and

hush the floor,

the moving lips of

the congregation,

the body,

the whispers against the veil.

Old enough to know regret

and remorse

I ask for the blood

of the Christ

to cleanse the way

of my mind

and body.

I ask for forgiveness of my sins,

including ones

I haven't committed.

Yet.

Because I am to young to know

being forgiven

does not always mean you get a second chance

with

the Father,

the Son,

or

the Holy Spirit.

I am not yet the limbs

of the fleshly body

on earth, the bride.

But I will be,

I am

the trunk of the body

the spine curled over

the holy of holies, my breath

the warmth and moisture

between towel

and rising dough.

Which means I am not the right bread.

Yeasty where I should be unleavened,

I breed life everywhere.

I am not even the right fruit,

for I am not of the vine.

I am the one hanging swollen from the tree

over the course of two summer days

and a night of soaring heat.

I

burst my skin.

Dripped,

grew so heavy,

I fell fermented

before the juice was ever pressed

or pounded from me.

I bear

alone

the blood

the sweat

the smell

the rot

the bittersweet

and tainted

acrid poison

that means

here

is life.

Let me put it to your lips.

Amen.

As I rise,

my gaze penetrates the veil

the emaciated body

racked on the crucifix.

The ribs, the wounds,

the open wooden mouth waiting

to catch the painted trickle of blood

from the crown.

I follow my grandmother into line.

My vision of Christ

obscured

by the balding pastor

who puts his wafer

on my tongue,

I close my eyes

as the flesh melts in my mouth.

Swallowing His body,

I wait for the Lord to come,

willing him to be made whole and unbroken,

born again inside of me.

Opening my eyes, I see his mouth

still open and hungry.

I can still count his ribs.

I look away from all his wounds,

because they pain me

and I love him

and it is forbidden

that I console him

or cover up his nakedness.

My grandmother praises

the offering of myself to God

so perfectly.

Get Lit is so much fun. It's National Poetry Month. Celebrate poetry, celebrate life!