Ovulating in Church

Desire starts just above the eight-inch spikes
affixing his feet to the cross.

His calves are like those of a sprinter 
or an old boyfriend in Religion 101

who, like me, traded kidhood faith 
for Buddhism. 

Ten of the last forty hours I’ve spent 
in meditation, so I’m quick 

to catch my mind before it sends 
my body toward the rafters, crawling 

over crucified Christ’s chiseled— 
literally chiseled—muscle.

Cut it out, he told his students
of their eyes. I skip the raggedy sarong,

let my eye lay on four ribs and then
below, his gaunt gut, hollowed. 

It’s a bowl of ow, or how, as any 
postpartum woman knows,

agony and ecstasy demand our all.
This is what you get, Church, for making God

my size. This is what you get, God,
for making yourself so hard to find.

Minutes later, a priest splits apart the moon-
shaped cracker, and by God 

I’ll take you into myself 
one way or another.