Cynthia Cruz Untitled

I did not want my body
spackled in the world's
black beads and broken
diamonds. What the world

wanted I did not. Of the things
it wanted. The body of Sunday
morning, the warm wine and
the blood. Not the dripping fox

furs dragged through the black New
York snow—the parked car, the pearls,
to the first pew—the funders,
the trustees, the bloat, the red weight of

the world. Their faces. I wanted not
that. I wanted St Francis, the love of
his animals. The wolf, broken and bleeding—
that was me.

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