Spirit and Flesh

In dreams I travel to Spanish cathedrals,
great unloved ossuaries
with warm air inside, where tourists
flash their cameras like quick prayers
and forget that what is holy
takes time to know. During my visits
I wonder about the saints’ yellow bones
beneath the floor, and whether their God
remembers such decay. The bodies
of schoolchildren admiring the altar
seem so healthy, so unlike the gaunt ivory Jesus
who hangs unmoving above them.
What a crucifix it would make if an artist
wrought Christ as lifelike as me,
his tissues black with blood
like cherry meat, his joints bent
in vaulting arches, the colors of his agony
swept over the windows. Perhaps I am wrong
to imagine the fruit of the spirit like this,
like sweet pulp and childrens’ eyes
painting the church walls with love,
when certainly I house no faith
 in my own bones.
The only light that encircles my head
is not the honey of grace,
but the lightning of grief
that shocks me awake in the morning.
At least the Our Fathers pass
from my sleep into hot groans
 that fill my palms like sacred oil.