an open letter to Paul from Tarsus

why don't you relax a little bit,

drop the pen and forget the letters.

oh, Paul, haven't you ever

seen a woman with her hair down,

arching her back like a sleepy cat?

it makes circumcision feel so

unimportant--all this angry ink bled

over a third eyelid when you could

be over another body, inking your

fingernails into some parchment skin.

Paul, I know you read the Song of

Solomon sometimes, let your fingers

walk down to that strange appendage

that dangles from your body like

an extra set of rosary beads, Paul,

I think you stifle your lonely

come-song into a set of scrolls,

inscribe your loneliness with a

couple drops of white ink spilled on

an empty page, still warm with your

body but colder than an obituary