Textual Matters

‘‘Cross your legs,’’ saith the preacher,
‘‘and now that the gates to hell
are closed, let us judge by the text.’’
I was judged by the text and sentenced
to quarry stone until I become too
muscle-bound to dance. I turned vandal
among the tombstones where I buried
the gifts of a woman’s promise, cleaned
the wreaths from a marker of an
old shame and wondered if a bed of
violets could grow where the roots
of the coarse thistles the preacher
planted never seem to die.