this one time in nazareth
you gathered clumps of dirt
in shaking fists
trying to roll away the rock
that symbolizes the most spiritual visits,
where followers find bone boxes
of supernatural hypothesis
and break down bible barriers with weaponry
and “we got better answers,
buy into this religion
and we swear your donations
will give you VIP passes to the rest of eternity”.
and this other time in bethlehem
you caught your breath
and wondered if
all the blood draining from your wrists
was a sign from god
as you signed the cross
in four swift movements
examining stigmata under microscopic lens
feeling hands intertwined with rosary,
trying to pray to the one’s that visit poetry
on a regular basis,
conducting an open thought process
instead of closeting this new existence.
and maybe you took first communion
chewing card board cut out jesus
and maybe that wine drowned your sins
and maybe you were just a little kid
so close to never being bad again
wearing white lace dress
being made to confess
to someone
that is not
even
listening.
some scars are of rationality,
some are of mundane verses
like when the priest says, no homo
and reaches for his pistol whip
and chains the second coming of christ to a crucifix
carved from flesh of bodies
that have been condemned
and will surely be put to death,
with their blood upon them.
church gossip said you woke up face first in mud
and wondered where god was
they said you woke up face first
in the sun’s alignment with orthodoxy
pretending every bullet was as passionate as you.
so now it’s time spent begging
father, could you please
tattoo my tongue with the same ink
that wrote the word of leviticus 20:13
going back centuries
to remember that time
when jerusalem
was just a name
and not a reason to believe in
anything.
you bathe in pools of holy water
flowing with mixed up prayers and transgressions
looking reflections straight in the eye
as if you were the holy man,
as if you were the empty confessional
as if you were the tabernacle
that has all but burnt out.
I want you to shackle me
not to your voice box
and not to your
pop
lock
and drop it,
but to the vision of your rhythm
where the rain hits your window
in beats of domestic violence,
I lower my senses
to “it never happened to me”
or to you.
But it stains the woman on 17th street
fumbling aimlessly
on a trail that leads to a bulls eye
looking a lot more like a clenched fist
than red and white circles
making bruised flowers grow on cheek bones,
planting seeds of emotional anxiety
and she
still
won’t
leave.
not that she needs my advice,
but I’d cradle her in basinet arms
til her throat gurgles of self fulfillment
and the split skin of those red lips becomes whole again.
And I can’t quit the ties you brought to me
And I want you to shackle me not to our inability to procreate naturally,
and I want you to shackle me not to your language,
breathing scratches down my vocal cords,
but bind me up into your prayers
of the religion
you might still believe in
as you blow smoke up to a full moon
and imagine the back bends of fallen virgins
pulling swollen sutures from your day dreams,
I just wanted you to realize
that there’s skin connecting you to me
through goose bumps and arthritis,
‘til death do us parting ways,
I’d hold a white flag to your sobriety,
I’d hold a white flag to being lost like your virginity.
All I wanted was for you to realize,
That all I wanted was a get away,
all I wanted was for you to realize
that while you were spurting verses
from tissue paper pages of fiction,
the woman of my madness
nestles quietly on city street,
humming hallelujah through yellow teeth,
but she’s still smiling
through beaten blindness
and cracked asphyxiation
I think in some other world,
She’s happier
And so much stronger than me.
I want you to shackle me
not to your bed post
but to your doorframe
where lost notches are etched into wood
hanging delicately like these tired heartstrings
and to be honest
I would have hung a mezuzah on the white frame,
but you seem to already know holiness by it’s first name
and I wonder if those notches are as deep as a broken rib cage
or if they fit the same measurements as abusive backhand rage
and it’s not ok
when she still wanders back to her slab of concrete
and lays stinging body to sleep
and dreams of sunlight
kissing the blackness of her eyes
into wings of blue iris’
pumping independence into her bloodstream
where no fist can pummel down reality
and truth be
she uses spilt blood
to tag the pavement
in words of cursive that might someday save us:
“I MAY NEVER ESCAPE THESE THINGS,
BUT THROUGH
EVERY
FIT
OF
FIST
AND BROKEN TOUCH OF REALITY,
MY FREEDOM
STILL
RINGS”
