Communion
the body breaks: feed it to itself
at least once in seven days.
wine is optional; water slakes
the skin’s dull cry, pours clear
cool across eyelids & down throats.
sing to the tiles, sing to the ones
who hurt you. comb your hair
& plait it communion. your hands
are silver plates held out. reach –
let your spanned shoulders click
like a cross. print your cracked
lineaments into washcloths, press
damp into your skin. these nails
need paring: do not rake your eyes
like leaves over a grave. look and look
into the mirror, as though with blind
palms you traced each contour of your
self, mapped in night. hymn this body
reversed: an image made in its own
image; a star reflected in a sheet of ice,
unknowable & seen:
a piece of dust,
a thousand years of light
& still a star
& still ice.
Alexandra Melville is a writer and educator. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Lighthouse, Brittle Star, MIR Online, and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and has featured in the National Poetry Library’s Instagram Poetry exhibition. She is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing and Education at Goldsmiths.