A Poem

PARASITES

Know ye not that ye are the
Temple of God, and that the Spirit
Of God dwelleth in you?
    —1 Cor. 3:16

Don’t preach to me of temples, Paul!

I know
the rites
of silent men, white-robed and stethescoped—

these zealous men who poke and prod

who seek to find a tiny God
which dwells within and feasts upon a sacrament:
my feeble flesh and blood.

I've sent them on a pilgrimage
to prove a microbe thieves my life from me;
they bend low,
fix their needles in my modest joints,
and softly cite Hippocrates.

They return,
tested,
ill at ease to post results as blank
as idols’ stares.

I lick my teeth and think
that if my paling body is
the sacred house which cloaks a godly germ,
then let all temples—like my own—

be rot

to show
that higher gods
will sate themselves

on men who’ll bow
to those things
which aren’t seen now.