the first thing is to wait for the rain
to soften
our skin so that
might easily peel the surface
away
and still the blood stays
clinging in our veins
like the fly to
a horse
pulsing and swaying
to stay the rippling body
veins
the blood inside preserved
for the worshiping
:we won’t
tell God he’s only built
from our outer skin
when he is drawn from sultry waters which hold
gates
we’ll not reach
with toes caked in soil
we’re too dirty
for waters that aren’t a bathtub
:with blind hands
we tug forth
the beginnings of our savior from
that hidden place
and paper his formless existence
in our severed skin
until
there is resemblance to the fabricated flesh
that made him
our creation is infected by our flaws
and
perhaps monstrous
but still we hold
the nascent god in
our calloused hands
his stitches fresh enough
to come loose
we tremble under new weight but bear
this last pain
to give life to that
which might see our suffering
and—
still the light
part the water
scrap our bodies
you’ve become us
or
are we becoming you?
promise you’ll save us
Maker remake us
better  this time