Morning is my mass,
my holy ritual
burnt edges of toast, the incense
yellow yolk of egg, the communion
Standing on cold kitchen tile,
I begin a confessional assessment
of this new day
I forgive my shortcomings,
nod knowingly at my humanness
With solemnity,
I watch the holy procession
of morning rain
sliding down the kitchen window
This communion wine
is dark, caffeinated
cinnamon, the frankincense,
heaped in large scoops
until breathing in the steam
burns like smoke
Too hot to drink,
I swallow anyway
This wouldn’t be a holy ritual
without a little pain,
some sacrifice
of pleasure
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It has been years since I left behind any ties to organized religion, so I was surprised when my Catholic upbringing insisted on playing a key role in my creative analysis of morning rituals.