he climbed inside me even though i told him i was
much too small, found a way to get under my skin
past the angry bones and red, wet flesh. there was not enough room
to move, but he did anyway.
i was a monk curled up in a cave
a book and a loaf of bread tucked against my chest, but then
i was the cave, and there was no room for god
there was no room for anything but angry, red flesh.
he moved against me like god and bread, like
monks and blood, like bones and books
ripped through my folder of soliloquies
took this flesh and made it read.