I see that one arm is stubbed
by something. No one else can see
this, like it isn’t true.
To them, I am tragedy,
and I let them.

I am a hot potato
and they drool over food.
My crippled hands shove their
mouths full of muscle.
They like it raw
and tough.
So, I give them my back bone
to gnaw on,
they snap it like baby pea stock.

I spend two years in the ground,
done with legs
and feet
and toes
and balance.
I buried myself in dirt,
living with termites.

The thing about termites that no one else can see,
is that they aren’t true. To them, we are tragedy,
and we let them.

Jesus’ Fish Hooks

Dead center
dangling from fish-hooks
Jesus has pierced
through each armpit


every day is

a fruitful woman faces me
“those hips couldn’t possibly bear children”

an eager man braces my  backside
rests on me
cheek to cheek

men and women
all varieties
surround my languished

each taking turn
weapon of choice in

seeking destruction

secretly wishing Jesus
chosen them.