The bubbles of water spiders chuckle, dumbfound me so I blank. Fuck. But this is what you want maybe. The little dock, small lappings. Coos for the monster in your stomach. Hunger-drunk, I try to think on your question. Something theological. “It’s critical," you say. Your flip-flops dangle, in tight between your toes. God is between your
Jesus, having taken and blessed the bread, broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat: this is my body.
“It’s critical.” All I can think is, God is proud of us for this fasting. God wants our tongues for other things.