new poem

To tell of teaching the body to pray

Straight ways are walked to launder
me clean. I saint-watch Mary Anne
while pretending dreams sleep in
my chair. When she freshes covers
Her arms rise and fall. As enfleshed
concentration: her breasts risen
and falling as daily bread. Maybe
the still warm parts of her remain.

I dream she is getting ready for
work washing clean bodies for
funeral. And she prays that I can only
trust the dead. The digging of her
gardens reminds me of the sprawl
and tangle. Last night she told our
new priest of observing me smile.
A long time last since Advent.