Emily Warzeniak

Bread Broke

Bread Broke
It is penitence for the sinner
To love themselves,
And the body is easily broken,
Distributed with holy wine
And all the indulgence
Of Salvation immemorial.
And thus I prayed,
I spoke,
As the rise and fall of my chest
mimicked the temperature,
Break bread, girl.
Break bread, girl.
Blessings and prayer offered
Over what had once been my seed.

I am but the grain of my fields,
The chaff I tossed to the wind,
I am the oil well,
And ink runs in my blood.
Give us this day our daily penitence,
That we may suffocate in our regret forever.
Eat this proverb as sustenance,
As the bread, girl.
Break your bones
To free the breath inside.
Grind the mill,
The grain,
Knead the temple,
Snap open the stalk
And inside the marrow lies,
Inside the sap sweet,
The bitter fiber resides there.
Break bread, girl.

Plate of earth,
Salt of the form,
Form of the mountains,
Girl,
Never forget
The power in your movements,
The solid gold of your fluids,
That blood,
The sun,
The wind of your whisper,
They all pulse for you.
Those failures,
These flaws,
Build your empire.
They are steps,
And stones in your surface,
Climb.
Build.
Lift.
Be.
Begin again as if you are new,
Everything they told you never to be,
To look for,
To see.
Grace
Is not always perfect in execution,
Mercy
Is not always kind,
Holiness
Is not always clean.
 
 


 Emily Warzeniak is an artist, poet, and scientist currently attempting to survive the unforgiving climes of the New Mexican desert.