III. Skalish, you didn’t bend your back like a bowling pin or vomit some dirty words into the bowels we called ours. Sitting still as a skyscraper you scraped my mouth with earthy eucharist. Father, forgive me of my sins— you are bare, you are Siwash, you fished & fed me until
my belly bloated with your body & blood, and before you turned to stone under medusa’s gaze you snatched my tongue and spoke through the conifer tree, mouth screaming at the bear in the stars: You would not be reserved, you would not park at Stanley’s altar, you wood—