Comments Posted By Siobhan Anne Murray
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He was up before the first caw of the rooster, before the first touch of the sun.
“I’ll race you!” He always called over his shoulder to Giovanni, who grumbled and resumed his slow pace. He broke into a run as they reached the stone facade, although they were always early.
They slid into the wooden pews and Sandro folded his hands and crossed his thumbs. When he received the Eucharist, he turned his head. Just a few degrees, eyes still lowered to take in the altar server’s freckled cheekbones, his Roman nose and cupid bow lips. He held out the eucharistic plate, his reflection liquid gold. Sandro wished he was giving him the host, his forefinger was the one that brushed his lip instead of the priests.
Don’t stop with the host on my tongue, slide your fingers in too.
The host was raised, placed in his mouth. Each time he crossed himself and walked away back to the pew he wanted to fling away the flush on his face. Cast aside his thoughts like Judas throwing away blood money on the floor to say, please I’m just as disgusted with myself as you are, and I’d take my life before I did that again.
Rising at dawn was his blood money, his fare to Hell. He swapped the host for a glimpse. And each morning he slunk away from the altar, the papery taste of the Host in his mouth and grief and shame clawing up his chest.
But he wasn’t Judas: he couldn’t trade that desire for a glimpse like it was currency, pass the wish from hand to hand or fling it away. Just as he couldn’t change his height or the green of his eyes. It was a part of him: beat with his heart and were composed of his body as surely as his bones were.
» Posted By Siobhan Anne Murray On 07.09.2019 @ 9:20 pm
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between the hush of cicadas and croak of toads, he barely heard her step into the shallows. by the time he sat up in the grass, she was already chin deep in the river, the moonlight blue on her skin.
» Posted By Siobhan Anne Murray On 06.23.2019 @ 8:59 am