The bland taste of the Body
of Christ continues to linger
as I hold the plastic cup
between my thumb and finger
and watch the dark wine tremble
in time with my beating heart,
as if each tremor answers
my pulse’s plea to start
the imminent transfusion
like whinnying Whirlaway
stamping for the start gun
and the opening of the gate.
Note: This poem is from my collection In Search of J. Morton Allen (2015). Whirlaway was the Triple Crown winner in 1941.