by Mary Karr
Before my first communion, I clung to doubt
as Satan spider-like stalked
the orb of dark surrounding Eden
for a wormhole into paradise.
God had formed me from gel in my mother’s womb,
injected by my dad’s smart shoot.
They swapped sighs until
I came, smaller than a bite of burger.
Quietly, I grew till my lungs were done
then the Lord sailed a soul
like a lit arrow to inhabit me.
Maybe that piercing
made me howl at birth,
or the masked creatures whose scalpel
cut a lightning bolt to free me.
I was hoisted by the heels and swatted, fed
and hauled around. Time-lapse photos show
my fingers grow past crayon outlines,
my feet come to fill spike heels.
Eventually, I lurched out
to kiss the wrong mouths, get stewed,
and sulk around. Christ always stood
to one side with a glass of water.
I swatted the sap away.
When my thirst got great enough to ask,
a clear stream welled up inside,
some jade wave buoyed me forward,
and I found myself upright
in the instant, with a garden
inside my own ribs aflourish.
There, the arbor leafs.
The vines push out plump grapes.
You are loved, someone said. Take that
and eat it.
Source: Poetry (January 2004).