And still, we call this Friday good.

"take this bread" this dough this food and
let it rise let it soar let is sit in warm
dark places to be nurtured "take this
my body my bread my self" take this and be
whole in my memory, in my name, in my love;
"take this bread" though ours is leavened with
yeast and tradition and braided twice;
three pieces for the father the son and
that greatest ghost; three more for us
for love and hope and faith (lyubov,
nadezhda, vera), and bound together by
floury hands, kneaded into something more
than wheat and egg and yeast. this is
more than bread; it is love, it is spring
and hope renewed it is sustenance, it is faith.
"take this wine" and share of yourselves
in my memory, in the memory of all who are
not here at this table, for the empty places
we have betrayed. take this cup and drink it
in memory of our sacrifices and regrets; our sorrows
and rejoicings. this is more than wine; it
is truth and tragedy all at once and so
much more besides.

please forgive us our trespasses and
pagan inclinations; forgive the smell
of vinegar and my purple fingers, the color of
eggs that will never hatch please forgive
these palms woven beneath your image,
grave and graven, flat, behind the water cooler.

we partake of sweetness, of gingerbread
and jam, of khulich and pryaniki that won't
last the day. the bread never lasts, either,
no more than a week of sweetness on the tongue
and then nothing but anticipation;
we will wait until next year, when once again
this dough might rise (in a buttered bowl
behind the toaster, covered over by a shroud).

Take this bread and eat it.
Do this in memory of me.