Body of Christ By David Tierney
Until I was seventeen , I was a cannibal . Along with men , women , and children above a certain age , I ’ d rise to queue , waiting patiently to receive a sliver of Christ ’ s body . The priest would chant words and burst forth a garden of red and white cells onto the pure circular bread which he would lay delicately on my tongue . It tasted like paper , stuck to the roof of my mouth until , softened with saliva , it folded , flesh vanished down my throat .
Was I biting into God ’ s thigh ? Nibbling at his earlobe ? And why wine for blood ? Maybe God was an alcoholic , and that ’ s the origin of life scientists have sought out : we are the result of binge drinking an unfathomable amount of celestial Merlot .
I could ask him . I could break into a church bakery , gather wafers into a sack , melt them into a mould in our image . I ’ d sculpt and detail a divine six-pack and theologically-sound thighs , attach some bolts to that broad muscular neck , wire them up to a lightning rod , a bottle of red fed into his wrist , chant Hail Marys wait until the sky flashes white , and hope he rises —
When I was seventeen , I was a cannibal . Now , I use my tongue to peel the limp wafer from the top of my mouth and when nobody ’ s looking , spit it quietly into a vial .