The weathered words fall from my mouth,
each syllable knowing its way around my tongue,
well-worn and laced with years of recitation.

It is no longer an act of will to say them;
no, these words pour out of me as naturally as breathing,
the separation between me and the liturgy long dissolved.
Gazing upon the piece of bread, I think,
‘what a pretty piece of flesh’.

And when the words are spoken to me,

                    ‘The body of Christ, given for you,’

they are like the whispered intent of a lover—
soft and tender, wooing me to come.