We climbed but our hands rattled. His wife was absent
for an era. Nuns rattled through hairshirts as penance for
their phenotype. They’re taking the boats out of water
to grow their pyre. Everything is slightly hidden
from me, all the time.
Charisma is a penance. We grow our own vegetables
in a little plot.
Your arms will change. They grow bulky with rake
and hoe. In another village, women shear off
their boisterous hair. It’s done to code.
We can relax at night. Monitor desert tones. Mesas
getting darker. A part of the world cannot
be visited.
Above Santa Fe, God’s right thumb, smooth and
sculpted, quivers. It’s never been a sign.
