Bare
The love of God is not a thing one comprehends
but that by which – and only by which – one is
comprehended.
Christian
Wiman
The
Parable of Perfect Silence
It’s inspiring in an unkind kind
of way the way the body makes open
sores on the cracks and corners
of itself. The heels, say, or nipples.
Lips. It sends a warning
itch ahead of itself while
it saunters toward the soft pillow
of a blister and sits and sits
good dog that it is until it weeps
until it dries and splits
a limp want of an eruption of blood
and settles for a dribble until
soft isn’t
soft tell me what body isn’t
at last a mountianous range & all her
blemish & spit & boil all her crotches
where carion birds live in arboreal brothels where
offspring are toppled when
the time comes & the nest is
hefted from the twig & the branch
in the first sniff of wind
blade by twig by molted feather
is made again and again and again
it is made finally finally! bare
