because nothing in being human was beyond her, saint catherine
who they say lived by starvation drank a bowl of human pus and when i told my atheist lover who hated people as much as he hated god he frowned in discuss
and the bible tells us that for the love of it god became a man
and then there is that other catherine, crushed in a spike wheel a communion of her blood all over alexandria
and saint augusting sewed his seed all over hippo and milan and i guess what i am getting at
as i cease to be the plaster virgin
what i am getting at, as i tire of these versions of holiness where
lying, lying bastards pretend
to be so thin and cold that butter wouldn't melt in their mouths
is that the mouth of sanctity is being human and the heart of holiness
is not golden but sweating flesh and doubt and tears
and longing, throbbing
and the only place, the only space for being wooden
is in the firm and secret place between your legs