Unholy Sonnet
            Do you not know your body is a temple?
                                                            1 Corinthians 6:19

Some days it’s all effluvia and blood soak. Some days tongues
speak so dirty they need soaping. And sweet tumescent tissues
beg for transgression. Ignorant of prayer, the body sings.
It wanders, whistling over the ridge, eyes grazing on lupine, poppies.
What a vehicle, this delectable flesh, what a shape-shifting carriage
for distracted souls, what a vessel, canvas wailing for its paint.
What a pail of slop, its clear path a culvert. Sea surge tosses salt
into lungs, brines the body’s juices. Flesh bends thinking
one way, heart another, still they arrive at the same place, puffing
like an old bellows, recalling spring clouds of jasmine, wisteria.
The body never quite makes it to heaven. A handful of ashes,
homesick, scattered in the desert. Or silent in the boneyard,
unholy tissues offered to grateful larvae. Still, a song.
Back to Top