The Path Out

Sometimes I think about God,
or any force personified
as a robe-and-sandals man,
hacking away at my flesh.
Tearing away all the flab,
the veins, fat, and muscle,
until just bones remain.
And inside that the mortal strain
allowed at last to step beyond
the bars of its profane prison.

All flesh is profane.
That's why the Mohawk Saint
tried to burn a path out of hers.
With hot coals on the wild shore,
Heaven looming as a cross
out on the dark water. The core
of time degrades all flesh.