In a church I crept and prayed the Song
of the Heathen. A plaster
Christ nailed with blood, thorns.
My body a severed finger.
Wasps crawled over the sugar donuts,
the pan dulce, as I stared
at my reflection in a window
at a San Miguel bakery.
A cross the size of a jacaranda, leaning
and men and women whisper words
I don’t know. Carrie brushes my neck.
Last night I dreamt of Caravaggio
with blue lips, palm full of rotten
grapes, yellow skin. Naked—
I squeeze into a fist,
crack a knuckle.
I was trying not to drink
and my hands shook.