Ulna and radius twist carpals under the lever of the easychair;
one welted ear trembles bloody tears,
pressed to the floor beneath the stereo;
hand grips footed table,
clasps, intent to touch the wrong end, to be both ends fused.
Red-tipped claw—space small, so small—hand clasps
     girded web-toes.
Eyeballs roll across the roof of the bookcase, back and forth
tripping on the optical cord, criss-crossing, almost tipping over the
     edge to delve
into the unread world.
The sacred ingredient holds sacred power:
a white wasted leg draped over the banister of the whitewashed
topples its kicks like an empty seesaw in a fore-storm wind.
My nose squats on the desk where the night lamps hide
behind the unhooked telephone;
hair lies about the couch;
a stick up my hips fills a slip;
measuring tape is tressed across my breast,
which is propped up on a buffet table next to the study in blue
     and red.
Silk cherry blossoms strain color from the cheeks of the face flat
    on the floor—
its plastic paint peels around the lashes—
and your gauzy form stands outside, ruching in the wind,
where you pin my organs on the clothesline to dry.


Andrea Thornton: "There's not much to say really. I am a Catholic convert and a professional chaplain trying to do my part to heal the wounds on the soul. Most of these wounds are the result of some poor fool's failure to see beauty, opting instead to impose its will on others. Religion itself has suffered too much use to such ends. I write poems because they are useless, and the world needs to practice beholding useless things."