deep-fried communion wafers 

this is my get-holy quick scheme. 
we become miracles. maybe i'll wear 
stigmata & you can cry milk. we'll attract
all kinds of people. the believers & the curious
& the atheists. we'll make a carnival out of it.
neon halo. a lemonade stand. 
somewhere on the side of the highway that
makes a belt across the state. 
maybe we can take over that old building
that used to house the model train showcase. 
glow beneath a jesus billboard that asks,
"are you ready for him?" 
i'll dress in white & you can dress in black. 
we'll make big beautiful promises 
that never go anywhere. then, in the dark,
we can kiss each other like only trans people can.
we'll sell deep-fried communion wafers 
& offer them with powdered sugar.
tell everyone to lick their fingers clean. 
once, when i was an altar girl 
i dropped a consecrated host. i felt so bad about it.
i still believed that little piece of bread
was god. i actually still think it is but 
in a different way now. in the sense that there
is no god so we have to be him. 
we can get a few good years out of being
roadside holy. maybe make enough money
to buy a farm. i tell you all the time
about how badly i want a cow. we'll settle down
but still travelers will come to us.
they'll say, "i saw you years ago. you prayed
over us & we ate deep fried communion wafers." 
we'll make them again in a stove pot. 
i'll bring out my stigmata. you, a glass
of milk wept fresh for our visitors.