on Sam Edes when he’s backslided
all he can stand, blaze orange and camo,
unwashed, sour breath, headed for
the pines, the power cut, the deer blind
before he brakes, yanks the wheel hard,
takes the turn-off he had chosen against,
he’ll still brag about the eight-point rack,
the tenderloin, but now the Holy Ghost
pulls him, at the altar rail your uncle
pumps his hand, bear-hugs him, he goes
down fast, spine of jelly, rags for bones,
brightest orange, shaking on his knees

After Bella

In truth, I know nothing
of her secret or public life.

She is flesh, a body carrying
blood, a tight pelt of skin,
the mapping of bones,
and the nervy jittery pulsing
of organs, a panting mouth,
a tongue, a small sack
of the same complex 
and rot that makes up
my constantly betraying self.

I know that when I lift
her, tuck her to my chest,
she slowly settles, pushing
back as if she expects
to remain intact after
I have put her down 
to scamper off.