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 they know what my body isn’t– only what it is.
And to them, it is a site of worship.
The focus and reverence on my skin,
wordless prayers on my lips–
I can tell I am church to this person.
That this is a pilgrimage they’ve made.
I don’t know all the lovers and deserts they’ve fasted through,
What seas of strangers they’ve parted to be here,
Testifying at the center of me.
I don’t know what sermons they’re saying,
but I feel what they mean,
what they mean in this monotheistic moment.
This person makes me feel like this is the only god they 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 someone else,
their sanctuary for visiting touch.
We become shelters for those who honor us enough to let them stay.