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he says that your problem is that
you keep seeing him with a ring
of steel light around his forehead,
although yesterday you told him
that you thought the sky above you
was a burning hand,
and that at work you had to cling
to your desk like driftwood
as the floor heaved up
into a ruined stomach.
the boy had marsh water eyes,
cast down when he would
bend to gather the gnarls
of his hair like lost wheat
or bundle a medusa of chains
in his arms and sit in the small room,
head an adagio, dead as coral --
it was a lord who made him whole, you say,
who smeared the map of ash on his body,
who struck him into a mark for a lost question
and swallowed his dreams, mouth upon mouth
in a eucharist of blood like brine and cell's dust.
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