Vintage

Why not let Jesus beat and trample you with naked feet in the barrel of your heart, dancing to the un-struck music, sometimes a sea, sometimes a serpent's hiss, the sound a flame makes in a lamp, the dark body inside the bright one?

Let an unknown angel be your breath, and you need no rule but amazement. Let joy and sorrow savor the same cup, just for an instant, and the taste lingers forever.

You've been polishing the grail too carefully, the one you hid under a thorn bush in your rib cage. Sipping and sampling the wine of truth is not enough. You have to become what you thirst for.

Once fermented, a grape can't return to its circle of perfection. Your wounds must trickle to a single pulse, and all your pronouns get crushed in "Thou." 

The sparkling particles of your body suffer a burgundy annihilation, mingling with dust between the vintner’s toes. Nectar won't do, Jesus loves wine.

Now rinse out the chalice with yours tears and let a bolder sweetness overflow the swirling splendor of your emptiness. Who can name this flavor? Call it Loss.

Drip patiently, then pour yourself. Be the sacrament on someone’s tongue. Make her drunk in a holy way, and her parted lips will be a well, a portal to the Uncreated.

Photo from Wine & Spirit Education Trust