when jesus resurrected he left
his vagina in the form
of a music box. it's a television
in other version of the story.
the truth is always told
by femmes & then turned into
the jury is still out as to whether or not
jesus was femme but there is
a church on the moon where
they keep a single press on nail they think
was his. it's in a little glass box.
queens come there to weep.
a reflection is something deposited
& not something you can scoop
from a surface. i see myself
in empty spaces. in television screens. in
a music box that opens & no sound comes out
& you wonder what makes it
a music box if there's no song inside.
jesus didn't know what he meant
by leaving. considered sending
a text message for us to wake up to.
instead, he left in a tear
like most of us do. i am still looking
for where to keep my empty
& i am often jealous of jesus
with his infinite vagina. he gets
to be free of anything. he gets to
kiss angels if he wants to. devour planets.
whittle a face into the moon
& i am here in a museum of empty boxes.
i carry my own. fill it with pebbles
from the stream. we all do what we must
to keep the tomb full. i light
a candle. i hear a thread
of escaped music. toss my reflection
like a handful of dice.