print previewback ERICA DAWSON
Bone
I left my middle finger in a Bible.
Philippians 2:3—do nothing out
of vain conceit.
I love my body
= libel.
I’d wager Mary Magdalene, devout
down on her knees, had a thing for her wet palms
on someone else’s feet: her strength and grip,
grit in her nails. The murky basin—alms
for sun-cracked cuticles. Hard water. Drip.
The Bible’s thick on its white pedestal
to hold its weight. When closing, how it sighs:
a new martyr to canonize. How cool.
I broke the finger off for heat—the rise
I get when guys say break me off a piece
of that. When fractured, I can tense, release. 
Bone
Eve, clownin’ Adam
God asked me, like he asked Job, Can you loosen Orion’s belt?