Matchstick Legs

By Jonathan Callard

She had matchstick legs I tell you

(Maundy Thursday

Mission San Francisco and

I folded my arms in the pew

Watching strangers touch each other's feet

Cold water poured out of white vases

Splashes echoing in the drafty space)

And she walked in

Face of an eagle who had seen too much

Black cane

And stringy dust mop hair

And those legs

Matchstick legs

They clicked on the stone

More washing

More splashing and then

Communion—

The church is dark

Draped in black

(“He's going to die!”)

Still we came to the altar

For sweet golden honey bread

Matchstick woman and me

Body of Christ

I lost my face in the deep silver chalice

And sucked

Amen

Across the red carpet

She grabbed a huge hunk

Huge super chunk of bread

Matchstick woman now munching

Lips smacking so loud

We are hungry Lord

In the paper

A U.S. soldier points

Grins

At a naked blindfolded man

Shrouded and shamed

And another man stands like a scarecrow

On a box

Wires strung to his hands

(“Jesus is going to die”)

We are hungry Lord

And matchstick woman

And me crossing my arms

And the crazed U.S. private

And U.S. president

And Iraqi prisoner

And bridge-dangling body parts

And buildings burning babies

We are your body

Still the Matchstick woman

Comes and eats

She always comes

I do not know her name and she comes

And eats

And is not ashamed.

I want to sing with the Matchstick woman

I want to fly with her to where the Tigris and Euphrates meet

To where civilization first echoed

To the place

Where they were naked and they were not ashamed.

Jonathan Callard is a writer living in Oakland, Calif. He is an editorial assistant at The Witness magazine and program coordinator for the Center for Anglican Learning and Leadership at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific in Berkeley, Calif. Jonathan edits the web log content for Every Voice Network's “From the Lists” section, and has his own blog .   He may be reached by email at jonathancallard@hotmail.com .