With My Body, I Worship Thee

 

 
 
 
In my year of always autumn, I stole back the river.

Hoarded its rasp and rush as I fled

 

through the low, hush light of trees,

where the dawn hung on birch branches.

 

Light stripping the trees to bandaged bark

while I ran, my heart crushing questions

 

instead of a pulse—how much farther—

was I strong enough to reach the water

 

without stopping? Calling pain praise

may not be exactly true, but I once knelt for hours

 

at the base of a splintered cross

until my knees were scraped raw,

 

legs snagged in cramps while the visiting pastor

snaked his fingers through my hair

 

as if he could shake Satan loose.

When I staggered to my knees at the river’s edge,

 

ribs constricted to cords, was my sweat

really so different from his ragged prayers?

 

We both wanted to drive out something sinful.

Here, at least, I slapped water across my arms

 

until I could almost believe

it was a balm, and I was already healed.
 
 
 

Kirk Schlueter received his MFA in poetry at Southern Illinois-University Carbondale. His poetry has been a finalist for the Indiana Review Poetry Prize, the Yemassee contest, and has appeared or is forthcoming in Ninth Letter, Green Mountains Review, Zone 3, and Gulf Stream among others. He has been awarded a full scholarship to the NYS Summer Writers Institute, and has been part of the Hungry Young Poets Reading Series in St. Louis.