Even In A Flour Mill Laboratory, Poetic Images Occur

The stone walls of the ash oven
Glow; the cracks even redder,
Like veins in the unadorned
Chambers of the heart.
And in this hot mouth
I place all my hopes,
(Not even a handful)
Carried in a small crucible –
There the flour blooms to flame,
Petals flailing out the door
Left ajar,
Flicking air-ward,
Until cruder parts are burnt
Carbon-spent.
And around the edge
A tell-tale residue of sins –
Like a heavy mustache of stolen chocolate –
Smudge the bricks.
In the suck of the vent fan,
A few stray feathers of soot
Will rise as the plumage
Of a dark angel
Would drift in her wake.
But the passion-bright heart
Chews, digests, pulverizes
With pounding muscles
All the uglier motives.
Only the white flake ash remains,
So weightless
A baby’s breath could dislodge
My small wafer of soul,
Freeing it from the desiccator’s
Iron tomb to flurry in the room.
Carefully I cradle
This Eucharist’s bulky garment
Until I can place it
Upon the silver tongue of God’s balance
To be weighed back.