canvas of virtue by grace thomas

If a shift of flesh is heard in the underbelly of the church 
there might be a rapture 
But I will not be chosen 
my legs are slick to the pews

Or perhaps rapture was thought of 
between the internet tabs of the Father 
devouring seed and filth
while I pray to the painted ears of a dead drawing

So hang my bare body lightly on the cross
while the fervent gape below for blood 
If I went delicately like a slip of breath
like a quick swing of incense

Would you search through the charred remains of my virtue
For a prized salvage to lie on the altar
For an evil hand to bless? 
Or discard me with the waste 

For I too, bled like a grape for wine 
have the wrong kind of flesh