When we were small, we tasted small 
In the springtime it was nectar   
of a clover floret, or a single
leaf of wood sorrel, exquisitely sour
so, when first communion
Had no taste at all
It was bound to disappoint. 

How did that rustic loaf
In the upper room
become a bland wafer?
Maybe we overthought
In the reach for a purity
beyond the senses
and threw out the balm
with the bath water.
It took us a thousand years
and the best minds in Christendom 
to land on “transubstantiation”
yet we were held accountable
at age seven
second grade 
on the West Hill
above downtown Akron

That day in May turned cold
but we drove to Randolph anyway
(with its replica Lourdes Grotto)

Beneath the cold statues a
white snowflake 
dissolved on my tongue.

At age 70, It becomes clear, and 
each small taste
is communion.