I’ve never held an orange which has fully dried out, with its cloves loose
and falling apart. I’m only experienced in fresh oranges, cloves displacing juice,
a candle wrapped in tinfoil, dolly mixtures on cocktail sticks, the church
a once-a-year attendance. The belltower is a place I’ll never visit again.
Pulling joy with ropes after a wedding. When I lost myself they started
by using plywood, made a door wedge supersized into a ramp.
We park in the vicar’s space. I become a higher level of Christian –
martyr, blame ridden, sinful. This happened because I didn’t pray
during communion, didn’t make a stained-glass window of my life;
because once, my mother’s belt got hooked onto my wheelchair,
and in silent a chapel she panic-farted. It happened because I can’t drink
blood, or let Christ’s flesh dissolve on my tongue. It happened as a trial.
It happened as a wake-up call, it happened because I had sex too young.
My body chimes as it wakes up. It’s broken because my parents
have genetic conflicts, blank data spirals. There’s nothing deeper.