first communions

i help my grandmother out
of the oven for the fourth time 
this week. she is covered in grease.
she says she was making a cake
for my first communion.
i had my sacraments years ago.
i put on a white dress & everyone
celebrated me becoming a mouth.
i hated the taste of the old host.
at my church they baked fresh unleavened bread
instead of the wafers most people know. 
it was grainy & dense. i tried
to imagine it turning into flesh. 
metallic taste of a tired god's blood. 
my grandmother does not remember much.
just that we are supposed to be celebrating.
she sits at the kitchen table. she claps 
at nothing. starts making the cake again.
first cherry then dirt then butterflies. 
she tells too much truth. she says,
"i do not believe in any of this."
i feed the cakes to the moon. his
great big tongue like a wave. i tell him,
"my grandmother won't move on."
the moon says, "move on where?"
i do not believe in an afterlife. i believe
in a body life & a lingering life &
those can flow between each other.
my grandmother never head a body life.
not really. now she wants one badly. 
i tell her i cannot give her what i also
barely have. she chases me with a spoonful
until i take it. taste of roots & thorns. 
she asks, "how does it feel?"
i tell her, "like communion."