No, I will not change.
I don’t think it’s news.
Neither will you. No,
I haven’t eaten in years,
never loved your quetzal-
feathered pork chops, your shoulder-
blade soup. Like Job said, be-
hold, I am vile. Like we both say,
I know, I know, I know. No, I never
understood your neon bolero,
your light-up rosary, your passion
for meat on the bone. No, you cannot
have my dismantled phone, my junk
drawer soaps, my adapters for devices
that gave way to new and improved.
I’m not in an indigo mood, not
ethereally moving to a sepia tune,
didn’t descend from the People
of the Soaring Wing, the stoic
broom. They get old, the lamp cords,
the tiny plastic drawers crammed
with hinges, hangers, screws.
No, I don’t know how Catholics
put up with all those wounds.
The road is paved with gravel,
sand, what falls to the bottom
of a barrel of crude. Yes,
I’m wearing my skeleton suit.
Yes, I believe what Saint Teresa said:
no hands, no feet but your own.