Rich-incarnate, self-incarnate
Of something unself,
Greater, older, diviner,
Less common.
Wet and slimy on my back
To hard and set,
Cast to shape
And waiting for whips and chains
To tear the canvas
Into canyons carrying rivers
Bloody with unfair.
My back a part of You,
And others, other parts.
We all are.
Those deep scars
Fill us,
And the wet plaster
Melts into them,
As we unite
My fault, your strength,
I’m cracked, you mend,
The way a body should work,
Each part compensating for another,
Feet walking so the nose doesn’t have to,
Nose smelling because the hands can’t.
When it’s all dried and assembled,
It hangs from a cross,
And we are all too small,
But that back still bears my shape,
And that arm anothers.
Total, overarching, it is You,
And at the same time,
In a smaller way,
A way held only in plaster-dried cloth,

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