This is not you but your body
forced to feign prayer. A curbside
 
confession: Forgive me officer,
for I have sinned. On bended
 
knees, arms raised, hands reaching
for what little you know of god,
 
you assume the position. Cruciform.
Assume to know what you have always
 
assumed true: you are just one breath
away from breathlessness. This is not
 
you but your body made brilliant in orbs
of blue and red light. This is not you but
 
your body. Shrouded in siren-call. This
is not you but your body. Last words
 
from your mouth unheard pleas, voice
hoarse from begging before it’s holed.
 
Made unwhole. Your heart, like a fist, trying
still to hold on. You and not your body,
 
blocks away. Bringing home still-warm
bread beneath your arm. A bottle of glue
 
in your pocket, to teach your son that what’s
broken can be mended. A set of brushes
 
in your palms, because you wanted to paint
yourself in colors too brilliant for this world,
 
the way you deserved to be remembered,
bright and untouched by the dark.