I like your body;
it’s a good body,
you said as if in defiance of
years of bad theology too apt to cling
to my skin, acting as filter through which
I made too many decisions,
telling girls too young to know
how to put on a bra or wear a tampon
that they are never subjects, only objects,
so stay atop the tree, and never let yourself become low-hanging fruit.
These conversations turned the air stale
until the implication had insinuated itself into every hallway
and after-church donut:
If you have a body, maybe God doesn’t want you.
Don’t like your body;
it’s a bad body.
And knowing what a lie it is
doesn’t matter as much
as hearing the truth,
the liberating syllables,
of seeing creation
and saying, it is good.