My fingertips scrape against the bread
that cringes and cracks as each solemn
soul reaches out to tear its piece.
Her shaking hand pulls the bread
with urgent need as our eyes meet and I whisper
“the body of Christ” into the air between us.
She can’t break the bread
and my hand touches hers,
offering quiet help, silent prayer.
Now, two hands on the bread,
we rip, a piece is loosed, and then
suddenly we remember.