With my tongue,
I press the wafer
to the roof of my mouth,
but it sticks there.
It does not go down easily.

The last time I swallowed blood,
I hit my jaw on a door
that opened too quickly,
And it tasted like dirt.
I’m reluctant to swallow
       sweet remembrance.

My hands fight against
lying flat before me—
receiving the softness
is only a reminder
that I cannot grasp it myself.
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