Of all the places to beg
and here I am
counting the thorns
on each crown. I’ve crossed
my vision enough to be faithful;
the barbed dieback
will vanish me if it wants.
There are hymns I know by heart,
beaten red into the fold
of my hands. Father Charles holds
my wrist and I sing
while other boys hang
from the sacristy beam
pretending the floor will render
them to ash. We are made
in God’s image: dominion
mistaken for beauty.
And what’s more holy
than believing in beautiful things?
It hasn’t mattered, remembering
the burn as my grip fails
at the end of a prayer.
I fall to the ground
as all bodies do, and pray again.
