Okay, fine, here's a poem.

A Prose Poem Written from the Perspective of the Grapes Being Squeezed by Jesus in Juan Correa’s Allegory of the Sacrament

I am aware that my only

Purpose here is to serve quietly

Allegorically as servant

Humbly for the sacrament

In agony, in blood, in tears

For the mystery of Eucharist

And with this I’m at peace.

What I’m NOT at peace with is

BEING SQUEEZED BY JESUS.

It HURTS.

And since my value

My dying and living

Is held in symbols

Of His own blood

It, I’d imagine

Is hurting Him too.

Without this value

Without this pain

I have nothing.

No

Without this value

Without this pain

You still have everything.

Do you understand? I think

There are things that you should not have done

And you do not guess again

At your own actions.

You are not the parable.

Neither are you truly any parable

Not as much as you are simply

A piece to be purchased

With a fistful of widows’ mites.

Are you squeezing me

For this thy allegory

Or am I being squeezed

For what you think I did?

I maintain and solemnly

Protest and plead

My ultimate innocence.

I am

Confident enough in myself

To at least admit discrepancies

But there are those that should

Not be so fatal to

Your underpinnings

Or those of the fat Indian

Or the camel-driver

Or any of the divers shamans.

Is this fair?

It is, at least—NOT UNFAIR.

The crosses at the Place of the Skull

Are ranged liked the stakes of Purgatory

Around in three-piece sets like the suit

Favoured by an old man, mothballed

Worn, and smelling of pre-war pomade.

His hands are wringing

The juice, which is to say

His own heart, and how

Must it feel? –and how

Must it feel? –it is not yet

So painful as to…

OW

For the good of

Yesterdays past

And to-morrows

Yet to be woven

This is…

Here is…

OW, son of a…!

Son of God!

OW. OW.

FUCK!!

SON OF A…!

Christ.

Ow. Ow.

Is this the

Pain of

Sacrifice?