Deity

Who is he from the Sunday pulpit 
acquiring the air of sins 
with his lecture, 
hell’s woes never hidden 
in the muscles of his jaws, 
fraternal words (all-knowing, 
all-powerful) accentuated 
with his fist. 
(I cannot see the face.) 

                                                            Even though I kneel to him, 
                                                            she is God. 
                                                            She is nurse of my mortal wounds, 
                                                            cradler of my conscience. 
                                                            I bathed in her womb-baptism, 
                                                            uncurled, breathing perspiration 
                                                            through the pores of her temples. 
                                                            We are one. 

I acknowledge him, 
his voice deigning 
from where he leans 
into a makeshift throne 
every week, 
the dominion of his words 
falling on the sorrow of ears. 

                                                            When I am racked 
                                                            in confinement, she washes 
                                                            and annoints me. Her voice, 
                                                            atrophied in the gloom, 
                                                            whispers kindred peace 
                                                            to all my nerves, to the white moons 
                                                            of my nails, graying roots 
                                                            of her hair mingling with my own.