After I realize our bodies are chimneys full of rain.
After we shake out the crows roosting there. After
I visit this sanctuary with Noah and Noah’s Name
-less Wife, I name her third dove wreathed in wonder
weather. I name her church built, and built
to be empty. Here, where the animals have names
to tether their drowning bodies to, here where a body
can be a blank—we’re holding hands because every temple
we trespass is a mouth hungry for bodies shaped like ours.
Noah’s Nameless Wife unties her hair and says god will me
a sail catching wind. I am a burden breaking
water, she says. Is the anchor down?     good she says.
I’ll break the boat in two.