splintered block of wood grooved, now behind glass
in 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 is rigid, immobile I am thinking of the slender neck
ossifying at that angle sometimes it hurts
too much to move ourselves God tossed her
like a ragdoll from a horse into seven inches of muck
if this is how you treat your friends (she could get sassy
with her love) then no wonder you have 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 think
this rising from the mud would look like?)
of the stone pillow we make an altar pour oil
if we dream, painful hear the new name
