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Sonnet for the Physical Therapist Who Told Me This is Just

the Way the Good Lord Made Me  photo

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.


image: Tyler McAndrew