There was once a girl whose hands bloomed into camellia,
Her body blossomed petalled-red and radiated warmth,
Like the center of a wound or some common angel —
Until her appetite grew too enormous,
And God had to tuck her away behind his black velvet ropes.

They say he swallowed even her baby teeth,
Leaving her with nothing to hold of her own.

This she took in stride —
After all her palms were always too busy bleeding
To coddle buttercream or banana pudding.

At night she climbs into his stomach
In search of sustenance such as a sardine
Or an unpeeled orange,
Something to taste without tearing,
Something without the acrimonious gnashing of teeth.

Heaven doesn’t give you even a zipper to chew on,
Only an ankle bone and an emptied white room.

Catherine has no choice but to squeeze into his side
That small door for a smaller bite of body — the aphrodisiac,
The communion wafer watered with blood and honey
And its small white tag reading

                                                     eat me

          (Catherine is illiterate, but she eats and eats
         Until her knees knock and topple — )

Catherine nibbles even the crucifix
The wooden toothpick stringing together that sacred string bean,
That Son of God.