Transubstantiation

I’m sitting in the pew, blood
between my legs,
wondering if when I stand,
there will be a red
spot.

What if I become the Christ
figure, the God they reduce
to cheap, overused
tropes?

I’m standing in the shower,
washing the blood
from my soft, peachy thighs,
watching it mix
with the water,
watching my womb become
Eucharistic,
flesh of my flesh,
wine flowing over
white tiles.

I’m walking up steps
and hear two men behind me.
I feel their gaze,
wishing I could bleed
on their faces.
I’m atoning
for my sins.

Now I’m the Christ figure,
locked in the bathroom,
blessing
the
blood
as
it
drips.