The Pleasures of Prayer

Luke Mancuso, OSB


Flecks of ice on the windows 
Burn like fireflies. 
Sear the panes in the winter noon sun.
Stir the cement skin of this church.

Barely compressed
In this veined house of blood.
Flesh is a spongy garment
Bearing up this stone sarcophagus.

Massage humid fingers
Into the seams of this chill monument.
Siphon saps of spring
Into this concrete cadaver.

Secrete these resins in a catacomb of glands.
 Limber up these still trusses.
Melt the marrow in these vaulted ribs.
Sting with a galvanic embrace.