Seeming sacrilege and sacrament meet in the eating of a cherry.
It dangles from a stem held between my forefinger and thumb: round, plump, whole. Carmine, ruby and garnet hued.
Take, and eat.
The first bite–a puncture violating the smooth, firm skin. Blood red juice weeps from the opening, staining fingertips, splattering onto the table.
This is my blood poured out.
Another bite yields a fuller taste of the cherry’s flesh: firm, yet yielding; sweetly bitter in its tartness.
This is my body, broken for you.
Now the pit alone is left, a hard little tomb, holding within it resurrection promise.