Communion Cups
by Shawna Ervin
The girl pinches one plastic communion cup between her thumb and fingers, another, another. She stacks them in her left hand while collecting more with her right. The cups give under her grasp. There is dark-red lipstick around the edge of this one, dark purple dried around the edges of the inside of each cup she stacks. Grape juice.
She listens to the hum of the radiator, voices in the lobby, considers dipping her tongue into a cup, licking the dried juice, letting the sugar stay on her tongue, permitting herself the forgiveness that is withheld until she can recite the tenets of the church, commit her life to the service of the kingdom, to stand in front of the congregation in a white robe, be dunked under the water, let the people examine her. Only if she was found to be faithful, true, and pure would she be allowed to accept forgiveness for her many sins, to be made new, to taste the juice.
At eight she knows that she is not pure. She cannot forget the feel of her dad’s callused fingers under her nightgown, his wet kisses.
She picks up another cup. It cracks under her grip; the plastic slices her thumb. Bright red runs along the crack. She watches blood mix with juice, the two turning brown, dirty. She adds the broken cup to the stack, others on top of the broken cup.
More cups. More lipstick. The stack wobbles in the girl’s palm. She shuffles to the front of the church, a folding table covered with a purple tablecloth. She brushes cracker crumbs to the side, sets the stack of cups down. The stack tips to the side along the curved edges of the cups. She watches to see if it will fall. Not yet.
She returns to the folding chairs, retrieves cups from the plastic holders hung over the backs of chairs. She pauses to read prayer cards left on chairs. Please pray for my hip replacement surgery. Please pray for my nephew who has fallen from grace.
She continues along rows, the stack again growing in her left hand. Again she balances the cups on her palm, watches the stack tilt. She holds her palm stiff, walks fast against the momentum of the stack’s arc, sets this stack next to the first one. This stack, several cups taller, leans farther away from her.
She stands, her hands clasped behind her, how she has been trained to withstand want.
Slowly the cups fall. When the top cup hits the table, a drop of grape juice spreads onto the purple tablecloth. The spot darkens. The girl places her finger in the center of the spot, lifts her finger to her tongue, closes her eyes. She tastes only a hint of juice along with the salt of her sweat. The girl slides the stacks of cups over the spot, her secret covered. She stifles a smile, then turns and leaves the sanctuary.
Shawna Ervin has an MFA from Pacific Lutheran University. She attended Bread Loaf in 2021 and teaches teen poetry workshops for Tupelo Press. She also serves as a guest artist and mentor for Art from Ashes, which provides therapeutic poetry workshops to struggling youth. Recent publications include Bangalore Review, Synkroniciti, Rappahannock Review, The Maine Review, Sweet: A Literary Confection, and elsewhere. Shawna was a finalist in Ruminate’s 2021 flash essay contest and a semi-finalist in their 2022 poetry contest. You can find Shawna through her website, https://shawnaervin.com/.