#38: if my body is a temple

if my body is a temple 
and my grief a great black dog
could you pinpoint the moment she decided to stand guard
hackles raised and eyes ablaze
the beast of myths guarding hell’s gates 
so that the mistaken cannot go astray
who am i, if not hell 
who am i, if not heaven 

if my body is a temple 
can i just be with it to pray 
am i more than all its ache
am i sweet like bloody gums
am i soft like ocean breath
that persistent thing i cannot muster -
who am I, if not of service
if my body is at ease
do i simply cease to exist

if my body is a temple
are its columns repeatedly broken
desecrated, pillaged, fought over - 
because sanctity is a war, and we all know this by now.
there are no godly places that have not known slaughter, 
to be divine is to be torn apart, 
an atheist’s search for meaning
a slowly bleeding oxheart

if my body is a temple
shoes waiting to be stolen at its gates
the rows and rows of candles singing
the wax dripping down your arm
each second some god’s wincing reminder that even 
the hurt is a thing with its own kind of charm

yet you stand here telling a broken dreamer to dream - 
to live alone - to live wild - 
to look at fractured things and see snowflakes - 

to look for the good folks despite all their fractals - because of their fractals - to imagine, what if, like we haven’t seen the answers up close - like we haven’t had nothing to believe in but god - because the priest is mad but he’s still a priest - all i have left for this to show

if my body is a temple 
and my grief a great black dog
the bloodhound picks up on jasmine somewhere between this city morning, ripe with smog 
and her legs tell her to run, to find it, 
her legs tell her this is the temple, this is the thing you were made for 

if my body was a temple and my grief a great black dog
can you pinpoint to the moment i thought she was bigger than i 
like i wasn’t the one holding her, 
a pup - whimpering and cold, 
searching for a mother whose head was 
forever bowed down, devout.