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Poetry

I believe in holy theft.
Pelvis bone of Saint What’s-His-Name

hoisted above famished fields for rain.
Knuckle of the Mother for luck.

Splinter of manger. Shards,
their haloed ephemera.

To hold a relic is to change it,
under glass, with ropes, a ring of stones.

Lord knows to protect love
costs a tender violence.

Head snippings pressed
between crystal lenticels.

Crescent horn of fingernail in locket;
rogue, lure-hairs, a spell of seed

captured in places unmentionable.
Unadorned, unfigured,

with hands and more we’ve stolen.
Gut-twisted silver winter. Soul’s gold.


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