splintered block of wood grooved, now behind glass
within the Avila monastery what dreams
if she could sleep did she lie supine or turn to press
her skull, ear painful to listen
for what’s rigid, immobile I’m pondering of the slender neck
ossifying at that angle sometimes it hurts
an excessive amount of to maneuver ourselves God tossed her
like a ragdoll from a horse into seven inches of muck
if that is the way you treat your folks (she could get sassy
along with her love) then no wonder you have got so few
but he knows what he’s about knows
when to throw us hard
when to carve away the comfort of ruts bolt us jolt
us like Jacob to wrangle
the dark dazzling weight of an angel your unbearable
finger thrusts
unhinges my contending hip (what did you’re thinking that
this rising from the mud would seem like?)
of the stone pillow we make an altar pour oil
if we dream, painful hear the brand new name
