lost items

no one has ever actually seen 
st. anthony of padua, the patron
of lost items & amputees, a barren man.
i think of him as i watch 
videos of phalloplasty, 
the careful folding, oh bloody 
origami body & the teal doctors
playing with stitches. i wonder
if he is the patron of absent parts 
as much as ones removed. a skin 
graph, make me obelisk, make me 
a manhood, oh please, oh no.
maybe he wandered 
off in search of someone else,
a lover? a pair of earrings?
i want to ask if remembers 
a small girl rummaging in the 
laundry closet looking for
a claddagh ring. he finds the ring
& puts it on, silver & glinting
in the neon. speaking outloud
i tell him that my relationship
to my dick is vexed, that sometimes
i want one very badly but
i can't know for sure why. it was 
a growing absence, a part i learned
that i needed. stuffing underwear
with claddagh rings & rubber 
penises; soft & toad-like. 
the doctors marvel at their work,
they take pictures of the body,
they wipe away blood as the camera flashes
flicker. i feel my own skin & 
swallow & Our Father, we don't
say that anymore.
church doctor 
st. anthony where are you?
i hide my dildos in the hopes that
he'll come to find one; 
in the potted mums on the porch,
in a cereal box, stuffed in a rain boot.
he must have because they were all
gone the next day but we didn't 
cross paths. i shoo the doctors
away from my bed side,
they draw lines on me 
when i sleep, marking where
they'll take the skin graph from.
i say no & pull the covers 
over my head.