Strip mine my guts
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