Holy communion James Yuan
One day, one Sunday, after Mass, While mum was off to yoga class, While dad was out to cut the grass, I snuck into the pantry. That day, I knew, I’d find the truth! What priests and parents hide from youth But could not hide from such a sleuth As I. No, not from I. I tip-toed through the generous hoards Of eggs and oils and bulbous gourds And slithered and crept my way towards My yeasty destination. For greatly did I crave to know, And deeply did I yearn to show: Where is it in this dried-up dough That Jesus thinks he’s hiding? So took I then in hand a slice And turned it over once and twice And stared in search of paradise Amidst the sourdough rye. But seeing naught but crumb and crust I thought conniving Jesus must Have made himself a speck of dust Inside the crusty loaf.
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