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.