Leveler Poetry Journal
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a god that can’t be chewed is not
a god. we consecrate with lips
and teeth and transubstantiate
as soon as we consume; by we
(of course) we two, and god between
each taste, immaculate and bruised
the blue of saintly eyelids clenched
sublime in scaffold prayer. except

your touch is not a purging, not
a cleansing; every chunk of skin
worn sweetly raw bears witness more
succinctly than a hymn, & any child
can tell you that it doesn’t exist unless
it fits in your mouth. we understand
by devouring, grinding, taking until
the divine can fit behind our ribs

Ryan Boyd