because I go
like the professed
sinner repentant
to the altar
of your baptismal flame
I am saved
despite your
sculptor-love
whose whimsy kneads
and molds
and fires
then breaks
the free-form
of my fasting body
to make
me whole
yet thankful
I accept
these carnal gifts
of you
Eros
and wear them
as I would
flawless jewels
(how can you
know that I
have bled
the way
and back
biting the dust
to wear
your name?)
. . . the wound lies
not
in your infliction
but in my
expectations . . .
