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Carl A. Winderl


Poetry

Femme Fatalities: 14. r 6

"My son,
the Flesh & Blood King."

Why me
(at Communion)
am I
the only one
who combines
the Host & Wine in One

within my cup:

there
nestled in my palm
the limpid pool shimmers
in rhythm
to my heartbeat while
the Host (as of old)
absorbs the winedark blood

so that saturated, it
sinks beneath
the Cleansing Flood

and I am me no more;

I sup
and He and I
Are—
One again

the way it used to be.

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