JESUS WENT OUT THE BACK WINDOW AT THE BOULDER MOTEL

Nails enter Christ’s palms.  

Unforgiving lovers enter  

virgin bodies–at the Boulder Motel,  

women say God and men say  

God and sometimes

they say it at the same time  

in the same room, pressed together.  

I did not know closeness until  

it knew me. How do I prove I am here?

I am here. Your right eyebrow alters  

the print of my thumb. White webs  

form on the corners of God’s mouth  

from dryness of breath. I pick

at my skin and leave parts  

of myself you can’t get rid of.  

Home is far.

Home taught inwardness.  

Why is playing House  

so sexually tense?  

I lean into my neighbor and miss  

his lips. His family cat was found

at the intersection of our backyards,  

skinned. “We are moving before

he hits puberty,” my mother says.  

As a girl, I thought love just happened.

At the Boulder Motel, a bevy of sinners  

block Christ’s door. We are waiting  

for love to happen. Jesus unlatches  

a window, wipes his nose on the curtains.

The world blows into his room,  

red and hurting.

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