a personified crucifix will try to steal your body from you,
will try to pin you to a dissection table and turn your insides
into an anger, will stomp their feet between your legs,
track mud all over the temple.
when this happens,
consider the bruises to be war badges, cradle yourself like an egg instead, reflect
on the wonder of blood clots and involuntary healing,
whisper to the parts of you that have been invaded:
"my body, my body,
i apologize for the years i treated you as a plague,
baby, i'm gonna take real good care of you from now on."
decide on vegetables twice a day, drink water until your stomach bloats, buy
10 cigarettes and snap them in half
over a river rock, a sacrifice
to the god of second chances (or 3rd, or 5th).
oh body, i am sorry for the people i let you turn into
in order to come back home. all the skins littering the bedroom floor, all the rolled up
pants thrown to the side.
oh Penelope, oh my love,
i show up at the door with seashells and 100 postcards
i didn't have the guts to send
before the war.