My thunder thighs don’t say temple.
My stretchmarks are not stones where monks kneel.
My bruises and scars are not made of stained glass.
My body isn’t a temple.
is capable of recovery and growth.
It meditates in the miracle of healing.
It’s not stagnant, not easily broken.
I don’t think he knows what my body isn’t– only what it is.
on his knees
The focus and reverence on my skin,
wordless prayers on my lips–
I can tell I am church to him.
That this is a pilgrimage he’s made.
I don’t know all the lovers and deserts he’s fasted through,
What seas of strangers he’s parted to be here,
Testifying at the center of me.
I don’t know what sermons he’s saying,
but I feel what they mean,
what he means in this monotheistic moment.
He makes me feel like this is the only god he could ever fathom praising.
I am not my own temple.
Any temple that’s suffered the wreckage I have would never survive.
But this can be a temple for him,
his sanctuary for his visiting touch.
We become shelters for those who honor us enough to let them stay.