Outpost

The turning cradle was a tin can with
a bell to summon the holy

to fetch unholy flesh concealed within,
a lump of clay in unwashed rags,

its head a ball, its shoulders shapeless,
the heart beating without sticks.

The holy women, diapers on their heads,
first crossed themselves, then

cleaned the offering with holy water,
put it in a bed with bars, gave it food.

A medicine man counted its fingers and
toes, a holy man chanted over it.

Later, a couple entered the room, and
called it a whore.


Written on 06 April 2004. One of my first poems about my abrupt "coming of age".