Morgan Parker

Good morning how may I
offend you on this cracked
open Sabbath Dear God
I promise to prop you up
Of course I exist
I have every small name
Metaphorically draped in linen
I am often used to describe
the invisible how it carries
I answer your phone and pack
your lunches for it is written
A woman must
A man shall receive
Scrolling through profile pics I am
ashamed I disappear into
mysterious pastures
O unproven halo
Have I ever lived
I must be a joke
Written in seething
sweat after the passage
of eternal lives
snapped broomsticks
To dusting I return singing
Jesus loves me yes
Yes and my body
My steepled temple
O God your flesh is a word
My flesh by the grace of you
I believe in everything
Brown bodies in a salty river
Your praises in their swollen cheeks
I must be the B-side
Clipped to the editing floor
A gold road paved with me
And Jesus said medium rare
And I bowed quietly eternally
Cleaned his cup on my apron
and poured him his blood
In this parable I am the goblet
Crater of birth and service
I leave no trace
I become the smallest book
Smooth vellum pages
Anciently flaking
With these thorns I thee stroke
and lie down under questions
Jesus what can you offer me
Will you return from your journey
across skin-colored sands
to wash the feet of other women
and touch my head with truth
I will be waiting in a doorframe until harvest
Until the sky is so clear I see
my lipstick reflecting in the olive trees
Take the fever out of me
Come in and rise again and again