Flat on the bathroom floor at 2 a.m.--

eyes open, and the porcelain font

loomed above me like a ghastly chalice.

Eyes closed, I had visions of Saint Anthony

torn by demons in a tile-lined cave.

Thirty pieces of silver for that salad,

that unholy host, then wretched and retching--

betrayed by my whole body, my mind

seething in a sour martyrdom.

No recollection of a state before

this suffering, and no faith that grace

might save me, I ached to understand my sin,

to know what had left me so forsaken.

But once the daylight shivered across the sill,

there was only one revelation I took

from that floor: if the Bridegroom had come

for me that night, I would have gladly taken

his hand, and placed it against my fevered cheek.

header image: Emma Cleverly / flickr

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