The woman says
I have an encrypted pregnancy:
is dispersed through my organs,
throughout all the parts of my body.
When the Lord
sounds the trumpet,
the fetus will reassemble itself
and I will give birth to the Messiah.
She wheezes through loose soil and—
because souls are diaphanous—she sings falsetto.
Though pale, palest, she is
livid against the pallor of the given world.
The number eleven is arbitrary, nonetheless
“resurrection” must appear in the middle line
of the poem. High,
higher, until all the dogs in creation
shudder at the pitch of it,
her loose weave, her gauzy tune. She bends her hips, stands
her up, chalky soil draped around the white blush of her ankles,
and so transparent the song that levitates beyond the range of
Epiphany jilts revelation: lover tracks the
movements of ex-lover, blotched footprints pressed in dirt.
This holey vessel. This. This. This
in a sequence, no, a clot, no, a knotted cluster of veins
that claimed itself as a body.
An aphrodisiac that stirs the no-body.
Adoration that scorns fulfillment as excess.
To renege on delirium, erotic error
wandering without shoes, then without feet.
bending from forgotten arteries or
Orgiastic sequence diffused in a cloud of pronouns.