I often return*
to the space which is Your Son, your first Son.
Then thought takes on His form
but the eyes remain empty—
and to the lips words return, the same words
which he put on
when he wanted to stay with us.

These self-same words enfold his space
better than sight,
better than memory and heart—oh, Mother,
then you are with Him again.

Bow down with me and take—
Your son is the taste of bread,
and beyond taste, ineffable is substance.

And now—more real than in my lips' whisper,
than in thought, sight, and memory—
is the space also more really in bread?
Your arms now remember His space, the little head
snuggling to your shoulder,
for the space has remained in You,
for it was taken from You.

And shining never empty. So very present in You.
When with my trembling hands I broke the bread
to give it to you, Mother,
I stood for a moment amazed as I saw
the whole truth through one single tear
in your eye.