As wistful as any portrait
from El Libro de Santos
was the dream of a spear
branding me a sinner.

Little by little I see clear
to giving myself away.
This rib for Moses,
this rib for Michael.
This rib for James,
and this for John, the deserter
and Jesus the enforcer.
Their bellies are full of me.

You need to know lust has a smell,
pain has a scent, death is a flowerbed.
You need to know
somebody loves you.

Let me show you these stars,
Christmas red, holy silver and gold,
royal blue and jamboree green.
Let me show you these stars
clinging to my skin
in the damp morning.

I could never decide
between the mindless sheep
or the toothy wolves.
Now there are no stars,
only the stones of judgment
and shallow sleep.