In The Mouth of Devotion

By Sydney L. Wensel

You are neither a birdcage nor a coal mine, 

But your body is kissed with canaries— 

Lacerations trickling out your golden blood—

Unkind souvenirs from bastards,  

False friends and their palmed daggers.

How I wish you had not needed to be strong,

Brave, resilient— old soul Indigene, 

Kintsugi-made, jaw set firm, 

     Lips unquivering— 

As the trickle stops in the cold.

How I wish you had not needed to be bold—

When they tried to capture 

                      and keep you,

Like willful, unshrinking lotus feet— like weeds— 

And I wish you could rest, 

              rest, 

              rest.

And I hope that when He climbs in, donning you— 

Pulling you taut in glorious vesselhood, 

That you feel free— like Shibari, 

And the morning breeze.

By Sydney L. Wensel