Imogen Smiley

In Body, And Mind

I have built an altar on my chest
Of drawers, dedicated to my body,
I will no longer host vigils for my
Eighteen-year-old self’s goblet hips.
Nobody will drink wine from my collarbones
The brewery closed down.

I shall free my insides from their imprisonment
Skinny jean lacerations will no longer
Form scars along my waistband
And stretch mark vines will be free to reach skyward
No longer eclipsed by hoodies.

These walls are a place of worship.

Etched on its surface are murals and tapestries
That don’t make sense to be together:
Mosaics made of shattered glass and blood drawn from mercury.
The curtains hang open; the light caress these silver veins.

Greet those who may grovel at my doors
To be privileged with the password
And the secrets hidden beneath
Each cracked stone and chip in the floorboards

These walls are a place of worship.

An altar that decays beneath the fragments of a skylight
Bathes in the light of my praises
Where droplets of waxy quartz pool onto the table
Adding candlestick supernovas to coffee ring planets

My temple is a place of worship.