All of the saints starved themselves.
Not a single fat one.
The words "deity" and "diet" must have come
from the same
Latin root.
Those saints must have been thin as
knucklebones
or shards of stained
glass or Christ carved
on his cross.
Hard
as pew seats. Brittle
as hair shirts. Women
made from bone, like the ribs that protrude
from his wasted
wooden chest. Women consumed
by fervor.
They must have been able to walk three or
four abreast
down that straight and oh-so-narrow path.
They must have slipped with ease through the eye
of the needle, leaving the weighty
camels stranded at the city gate.
Within that spare city's walls,
I do not think I would find anyone like me.
I imagine I will find my kind outside
lolling in the garden
munching on the apples.
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By Joyce Huff
YOU ARE READING
Poetry 101
PoetryThis is a collection of poems for fellow poetry lovers. (I didn't write any of these)
