Transubstantiation

by Patricia Adams

My second grade soul

white, oval-shaped, diaphanous disk

Lies shimmering suspended

Slightly above and beyond my heart

Which lies behind the St. Mary's

small rectangular uniform emblem

Hosting two angels embroidered in gold

With wings in an eternal embrace

Of the blue and gothic S and M

Each morning my sweetly superstitious Irish Mother

tucks a small thinly blue-beribboned

Miraculous medal (for grace)

Along with two nickels (for milk)

Behind the angels inside the secret pocket

Formed by the emblazoned emblem

Thus loved and vulnerable I attend the daily lesson

of scrupulosity in scrawling to perfection

Endless Palmer Method ovals

Although wondering aloud to Sister

Why we never query the catechismic,

Incredible doctrine of the mystery of

This Is My Body; This Is My Blood

Unaware, that as I meekly sip once from

the cup of the wine of knowledge

I unleash the cataclysmic,

Until Sister's formerly gentle gaze glints x-ray,

Lasering the sin of my sacrilegious doubt

Onto the previously blank disk

As the left angel flies up out of his emblem

dragging me in his wake

As we arc an eternal vast descent

Across "Be Lowly Wise" blueblack vaulted

Miltonic skies

Wheeling past the siblings Sin and Death

at the gaping Gate

As I see the three metals, now tiny sputtering stars,

Sprinkling to nothing against a receding earth

I end up, though, back in my seat,

in the middle of the third row

Fountainpen in hand, to resume, to presume,

Tracing endless ovals of perfection

Pocket empty

(poor girl)

Bereft, except for the Beatitudes

Ite massa est

Et cum spiritu tuo