Writing on my hand

Stepping forward to receive the host, 
I spread out my palms before 
I remember these aide memoires 
inscribed in black biro, blots 
not quite scrubbed away. The left

now sat awkwardly in right recalls 
things to buy, people to catch, 
a reference, a superscription— 
Of the Sons of Korah. A Psalm. 
A Song. Too late to change,

I commit. The minister holds up 
for brief eternity the wafer stamped   
with crosses—the body of Christ— 
then consigns it to my waiting 
hands, become a palimpsest.