As Long as We’re Going for Broke

I am not a finger,
irritating by probling
the surface of some body.

I do not make holes for my glorification
or intrude
where holes are already.

I wrote that when I was a senior in high school
and sent it to The Saturday Review.
Maybe they still have it.

I don’t care about the part of the poem
that I can’t remember—
something about a master mind—fuck that!

So why constrain my finger,
which, symbolically,
is the same as my tongue?

Because I myself am primarily a body,
and on my surface
is a deep hole that needs to be filled.

I try to get my finger
to quit pointing at things.
It's rude!

My tongue does go on talking, though.
Maybe it can bring you to Jesus,
but I think it’s just singing.

So when you sing,
is it your tongue
that does it?

The tongue enunciates
the words, but the song comes from the belly
and heart.

Don’t worry about the words,
Jesus said.
The Spirit will provide them.

So what’s the Spirit, then?
Something other than the belly?
No.

The Spirit is the air
heated in the belly,
breathed by the heart

when

you
sing.