Posted on August 21, 2026 by Jenn Zatopek

COMMUNION

I.

At church one night
I tear off pieces of flat bread,
place them in willing hands
while my partner holds the cup.
This is for you, I say to queer friends–
We who know what lack is
and love anyway. The light
in the big red barn is dim, and
a song plays while Mister Rogers
croons in his warm voice,
I like you very much.
Tears spring to my eyes.
A woman with a bearded dragon
on her chest smiles widely at me.
I bend down to give bread
to lively kids. Everyone’s faces
illuminated like the stars at night.

II.

Even on the days when
rising from bed is a Sisyphean act
against sheer dumb exhaustion,
and I have to cajole myself–
Yes, yes, I can, I can,
I want to rip off the doors
as I inhabit this space.
I want bread broken for billions–
in warzones, in dilapidated houses,
unfriendly cities, godawful prisons–
Can you imagine it?
Everyone’s hunger satisfied,
every heart fueled by loving presence.
But wait! Communion isn’t
for the churchy few.
It’s in the loving gaze
of a friend as they listen.
A hummingbird hovering by
glass windows to peer at me.
A stranger’s kindness
as they wave me into traffic.
The swell of evening winds
through cottonwood trees.
Can you feel it?
This is me feeding you now,
and you touching me
with your heart.
Tell me how you find
yourself in another’s face.
Tell me what it’s like
for you to love.

Image / Helena Lopes, Unsplash