KYSO Flash
Knock-Your-Socks-Off Art and Literature
Issue 11: Spring 2019
Poem: 186 words


by Carrie Close

is the source from which all else comes alive 
like the yeast foaming and rising and bubbling 
in the warm water and molasses, that sweet 
dark syrup—sticky like sex on your skin—when 
the twin loaves come steaming out of the oven 
you think of Christ, and say, “Take, eat; this is 
my body,” presenting the bread, still warm from 
the oven, to the apparition before you, and he takes 
with his hands, and his mouth, hungry—groping 
and gnawing, and it feels so good, even the guilt 
to be devoured—the living yeast foaming and rising 
and bubbling—Take, eat; this is my body—bubbling 
in the warm, wanting only to be consumed, dripping 
sweet, dark molasses, and the apparition is nearly 
solid, as he tells you how good your bread tastes 
and you thank him, with regret that he isn’t real, 
that tomorrow your fingers will grope for him in 
the early dawn—when the birds are singing sweetly 
to one another, outside your window, through 
condensation—hung in a half moon—and they 
will close into fists, around nothing but air 


Carrie Close
Issue 11, Spring 2019

was born and raised in central Maine, where she is currently attending the University of Maine at Farmington for Creative Writing. Her work has been published in KYSO Flash and The Halcyone Literary Review.

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