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Prayer to the Shoulder Wound of Christ by Tom Snarsky


Prayer to the Shoulder Wound of Christ


On Sunday I get drunk & buy every book by René Crevel

That I can find on Amazon. This act of bourgeois shamanism

Is meant to help, even though I know that all our actions

Will eventually fade into a calm, clean, & moonish dark

With no images to speak of.

Still, the fear continues. When

I serve you a mouth in the dark, you don’t even pretend to act

Surprised anymore, which stings. The mouth being, of course, our

Lord’s, & the surprise being that of indomitable finitude peeking out over

The ledge.

Being drunk, I am not worried about overdraft fees

Or the fact that I haven’t read a book in months; I am only worried

About the sufficiency of bisexuality, the lantern of flesh poised

In the seat of the soul, & the way pouring itself pours

in mid-breath

On occasion. In these moments, history becomes a lavishness

That brutality

Cannot afford. Or a slavishness. Or a woozing of the heart & mind.


When the broken leg is so broken that thought stops

At the emerging redded-white (& for me it does), or when the shoulder

Decouples (flesh from flesh, flesh from bone, bone from dark)

& forms a new, looser unity,

every second in me burns to ask

The Question:

How many universes have there been? How many

Have contained you? What are we to make of the sex at this impasse?

It would be wrong to limit ourselves

to one set of colors, but

That was never what the snow was asking us to do. It wanted,

Simply, a myth—one that we might buck the trend

& tell our children.

by Tom Snarsky

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