The graft’s fixed, but you can’t fix me: my load
bearing walls thicken like they’re uterine
and then collapse, a deluge. It’s a sin,
to desire different architecture, I’m told,
but, Lord, we’re at least jointly to blame:
you gave me this body, which gave me my name,
its form preceding its content. You want
me on my knees but won’t bend yourself. Can’t,
or canto, I sing your refusals. Don’t
think for a second I’ll forget—I won’t:
the echo of him in hymn, and hymen
resonate long after communion.
I’d sit in the pew, follow the contours
of your splayed arms, wish mine were more like yours.