My body is a temple,
sewn together with transparent,
orange monarch wings and the
pungent smoke from burning
incense sticks.

I sleep behind the altar,
asking for communion to 
be poured from my lips 
and palms. I pray into
the floorboards. 
I have scratched my name
thousands of times into
the pews of my hips and wrists and 
I told myself that hymnals 
should be left in their neat little rows
and I had no business
flipping the pages.

Weave the wax from
burning candles
into my veins. These 
are my opaque 
chants, soft and silent.