RogueAgent

If they ask:
I sweat my history like my faith, cloaked
saints in strange forms
they cross, they rood, they clay their pots
across forever —

(They are always naming these boats of kin).

There is so much God
And I am so tired.
I breathe in so many hollowed (or is it hallowed?) places
          Trees, minarets, hoods of saints, the abdomen of the moth, Saint Louis, Missouri, and its
big canoes
And I am so tired.
And after the vaccine, my arms were so tired.
And when our daughter cries, I will be so tired.
There are so many histories, so many strange forms
I fill in the night.

And if they ask:
in your arms, I can be so tired and still
fed by the anointing:
your humpbacked song, your body of the veil,
the moths, the worms, and the left
breast,
swollen, resting, and feeding, still:

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