Each Bone of the Body
     sounds like a prayer, sacrum,
sternum, scapula, as if those
     who first regarded, then named
them, belonged to an ancient cult
     of architects who built temples
which resembled human forms with
     limbs outstretched so that
they faced the stars like stars
     and offered back this planets’
elements as five spokes
     on a spinning wheel.

If each bone of the body is holy
     it is because it gives shape
to mortal love—bowl of the pelvis
     like a cradle, sickles of the hips
like two moons, every angle
     open as the mouth to a kiss,
even though we will all be torn
     one day, from the comfort
of our usual orbits, and broken.

Yesterday, a woman I didn’t know
     unbuttoned her blouse slow
as the unraveling of a long summer morning,
     held the violet silk slightly
apart like those statues of Christ
     from my youth with his private
smile red as the hook and eye
     of a surgeon’s needle, his crimson
nimbus, cold fingers resting
     against his quiet stone heart
which was forever on fire, wounded,
     crowned with bloody thorns,
and worn like false regret or like
     a ghastly pendant hung
at the precise center of his chest.

 Once I believed
     love was like that, a cruelty
which haunted the empire
     of my childhood with the hushed
voices of black-robed nuns
     who spoke of Adam’s ripped side,
how God drove his fist in
     until that first man fell
silent, then snapped off
     a single rib which looked, at first,
like the waxing moon until
     he crushed it beneath his
heels like dust, mixed in blood
     from the season’s first kill,
then gave it to the wind for form,
     to the man who called that
new shape Eve, though she cared
     little for his lists of rules
and names, preferred instead slender
     throats of irises, pomegranates
with their skin of fire, the orb
     of gold at morning, silver-black
at night, and the circular logic
     of stars. She was judged to be
too much in love with the sleek
     tongues of fallen angels, the
taste of what was sweet and forbidden
     and sin. What could she say
except that she loved the heft
     of her bones, the way her mouth
had wrapped around the promise
     of knowing all there was to know?

In a room whose battered wooden
     floor was always covered with
thick curls of white wax and so
     seemed in perpetual winter,
Sr. Ignatius would read aloud to us
     from a book of martyrs bound
in sanguine leather—those who
     were wrapped in sheaves
of wheat, set as torches against
     night, whose skin was slipped
off like clothes before love--
     stones, arrows, hooks
in the glistening air. Teeth of the lion,
     claw of the bear, the wheel
in flames on the hill. Sebastian,
     Agnes, Catherine, Paul, all
destined for statues and stained
     glass, blood being the coin
and currency of paradise.

Once I believed faith was a gift
     which would help me turn
away from everything that woman,
     her open blouse, was trying
to say. Now I think it is a science
     of probability, as in
the sun will rise tomorrow or
     this woman will stay
with me tonight. And if I’m
     wrong, if faith means I must
turn from the truth of her body
     beneath mine, the late autumn
hues of her lidded eyes,
     then I am content to be damned
to this world where the sky
     will grow heavy with seasons,
wings, or swatches of blue smoke
     rising, and rivers at sunset
will burn but not be burning.

All my prayers will be simple,
     unspoken, the union of bone
against bone. I will pray to
     the body, which never makes
impossible claims of perfection,
     and to this world, which promises
this much this morning--

the sound of rain on slate shingles,
     the scent of last night’s
jasmine candle burning down
     by white curtains which float in
the mouth of an open window, and
    the skin of the woman next to me
which turned to silver
     in the moonlight, whose shadow tasted
like the powdered wings of a moth,
     an angel, who will wake to this
gift I offer, a branch of forsythia,
     its fleet fire bright against
the burnt umber of her hair.

I am telling you this despite
     the six o’clock news.
Despite Death who flicks open
     the cover of his expensive
watchcase, turns his collar up
     against rain, who, after all,
has been mistaken
     for that dark child named
Pain with his quick temper,
     stamping feet, who stoops
to tie our nerves in knots as if they
     are nothing more than
the troublesome laces of high-stitched
     boots. I am telling you this
despite Christ’s flaming heart,
     the wound in Adam’s side,
despite martyrs who upset
     the general equation, who refused
to flee, but lingered instead
     like cheap perfume, then bent
to kiss the cruel angles of strange
     and glittering instruments--
morning star, scimitar, stiletto
     teeth of the iron lady.

I am telling you this because
     it is the only religion
I know to be true, because
     the blades of our shoulders are
almost wings, because, whoever
     you are, we are alive on this
blue planet, because rain has
     overflowed the copper gutters
and the bruised sky looks only
     like itself, which is enough.
Because this is the only life
     we can be certain of. Because
this world, each bone, is holy,
     and never, never enough.