canvas of virtue
grace thomas | Fall 2021
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