Savage Mountain

Strip mine my guts
for toxins.
Lord,
raize your shelter from my bones.

Toss the hatching in the fire
for the children of smoke to supper on.
Spare no motion in the sweep of your hand
when you lay waste to what cowers there.

Make a parable of me.

Plane the slack from my spine
on the edge of a cliff
til the sight of my bare neck
begs praise of you.

In my heart there is nothing holy

nothing so gorgeous and trembling
to merit the removal of shoes

only the denim crook of a knee
I lay my head to
when the ground in me moves sudden.

When death calls,
it does so with the voice of a mountain
whose mouth is wide and hungry

its words a Sunday morning with your breath

an angel old in gingham
who sings a tired song, Lord

a song that knows I was born weak
a song that knows I will fail it

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