The Word of God, of the people, The Word of God, by the people, And the Word of God for the people, Thanks be to God.
Anyone who says revelation comes raining down from heaven a deep, manly voice and a halo of glowing, white euphoria Into the waiting pens of His faithful And -invariably- male scribes has never witnessed divinity unfold. It doesn’t fall down from heaven, It creeps up through the earth. It contaminates our water systems, infects our bellies with prophetic parasites, resulting in growing discomfort until we vomit truths we never knew were inside us.
From women’s nostrils the God-stuffs ooze Women who with living breath Plant seeds of love in their children’s hearts Though trapped inside the stink of death. God drips in sweat on two lovers’ backs, In self made bare and unafraid Audacious closeness, aflame, burns down The walls our fearful hands have made. God falls in tears of the ones unknown In silence, seeking out at night, Alone, they stumble towards the divine by faith they walk and not by sight.
With these spirit-bodily fluids, we spin the thread Enrobing the invisible flesh of God Weaving them with the threads of our ancestors With hands outstretched, or both fists clenched Left in a disorganized pile, Or lovingly stitched into our childhood gashes
Our bodies secrete unremitting unapologizing divinity Until we reek to high heaven. Seepage gathered in wicker baskets By prophets, who in their yearning,
Never stop spinning. Re-creating God, re-membering God Between two buildings, on a high wire Where pigeons land atop a church spire In all the senses children possess Bold insights, wisdom they can’t express
I hold their weavings close, For they smell, they taste of turquoise divinity. I clutch them for dear life at night, a dog snuggling up to her owner’s clothing. He leaves it to her before going out, Lest she wake in the night and get scared because she cannot find him. I treasure all this, and ponder it in my heart.
By daylight, I try on the Word, Linden’s knee socks, Brother Bill’s habit, Grandma’s knit shirt, so soft so orange. I inhale deeply the smell of friend, smell of home, smell of God. In the bathroom mirror, I admire the bold, ridiculous, clashing colors and styles, Paradoxes that cannot be A God transcending understanding, Yet perfectly revealed in the rise and fall of a sleeping baby’s belly. A God who is Mother in heaven and man on Earth and gender-queer everywhere-in-between And I revel in the revelation.
Dressed to the nines in the Word of God, I sit down to the work of creation A little felt hat with a little soft feather For like Peter Pan, my first transgender hero, God is forever taking me out Second to the right and straight on ‘til morning, But always bringing me home just in time To grow the hell up.
So my body joins with the body of Christ, Spinning circles in the Word of God, of the people, by the people, for the people So that we shall not perish from the earth.
3 comments:
The Anatomy of Christ’s Body
The Word of God, of the people,
The Word of God, by the people,
And the Word of God for the people,
Thanks be to God.
Anyone who says revelation comes raining down from heaven
a deep, manly voice and a halo of glowing, white euphoria
Into the waiting pens of His faithful
And -invariably- male
scribes
has never witnessed divinity unfold.
It doesn’t fall down from heaven,
It creeps up through the earth.
It contaminates our water systems,
infects our bellies with prophetic parasites,
resulting in
growing discomfort
until we vomit truths we never knew were inside us.
From women’s nostrils the God-stuffs ooze
Women who with living breath
Plant seeds of love in their children’s hearts
Though trapped inside the stink of death.
God drips in sweat on two lovers’ backs,
In self made bare and unafraid
Audacious closeness, aflame, burns down
The walls our fearful hands have made.
God falls in tears of the ones unknown
In silence, seeking out at night,
Alone, they stumble towards the divine
by faith they walk and not by sight.
With these spirit-bodily fluids,
we spin the thread
Enrobing the invisible flesh of God
Weaving them with the threads of our ancestors
With hands outstretched, or both fists clenched
Left in a disorganized pile,
Or lovingly stitched into our childhood gashes
Our bodies secrete
unremitting unapologizing divinity
Until we reek to high heaven.
Seepage gathered in wicker baskets
By prophets, who in their yearning,
Never stop spinning.
Re-creating God, re-membering God
Between two buildings, on a high wire
Where pigeons land atop a church spire
In all the senses children possess
Bold insights, wisdom they can’t express
I hold their weavings close,
For they smell, they taste of turquoise divinity.
I clutch them for dear life at night,
a dog snuggling up to her owner’s clothing.
He leaves it to her before going out,
Lest she wake in the night and get scared
because she cannot find him.
I treasure all this, and ponder it in my heart.
By daylight, I try on the Word,
Linden’s knee socks,
Brother Bill’s habit,
Grandma’s knit shirt,
so soft so orange.
I inhale deeply
the smell of friend,
smell of home,
smell of God.
In the bathroom mirror,
I admire the bold, ridiculous, clashing colors and styles,
Paradoxes that cannot be
A God transcending understanding,
Yet perfectly revealed in the rise and fall of a sleeping baby’s belly.
A God who is Mother in heaven and man on Earth
and
gender-queer everywhere-in-between
And I revel in the revelation.
Dressed to the nines in the Word of God,
I sit down to the work of creation
A little felt hat with a little soft feather
For like Peter Pan, my first transgender hero,
God is forever taking me out
Second to the right and straight on ‘til morning,
But always bringing me home just in time
To grow the hell up.
So my body joins with the body of Christ,
Spinning circles in the Word of God,
of the people, by the people, for the people
So that we shall not perish from the earth.
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