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