I liked that everything was turning into something else.
I was becoming a believer in the one big body.
All of us growing into various limbs and organs of one Beloved,
yearning for Bridegroom Christ and a strange consummation.
And that so much of church was about food: coffee hour,
communion, the grand picnic narratives of the Gospels.
The net dragged up full, and every loaf dividing, dividing
and replicating, to feed the growling multitude.
Each Sunday, the priest said, Here, eat a little piece of God.
Drink Him down and keep Him alive in your body.
So I digested Him and metabolized Him in my cells.
Over and over, I split Him into future versions of myself.
You are what you eat, the nutritionists intone. Does that mean
you eat what you are? What you are trying to be?