< draft 1 >

Unholy Sonnet for the Welt & the Flog

“Pain blesses the body back to its sinner” — Ocean Vuong

Handcuffs around my wrists lined with synthetic
fur. Arms—hoisted heavenward. Clothes—scattered
like flower petals lanced by hail. Piano

strings, when struck, vibrate long after we can no
longer witness their dance. The body—just
a music box with bones. The blood—a note

that when plucked blues. My muscles sing an ugly
melody. All of my bones refuse to harm
-onize. Percussion is our oldest form

of song, slipped disk or tongue’s distance from psalm.
I beg to be beaten into any-
thing more beautiful than gospel choir’s howl.

There is no prayer to save me from my flesh.
You can’t have the bible without the belt.

< draft 2 >

For the Welt & the Flog

“Pain blesses the body back to its sinner” — Ocean Vuong

Handcuffs around my wrists lined
for comfort—though perhaps not
mine but the one who bound me—
with synthetic fur. Arms, hoisted
(As one might raise a raft’s mast?
Or as a corpse lifted into the air
a kind of flag? For what purpose
do the hands move?)
heavenward. Clothes—scattered
(Could any other word fit?
Any vocabulary
but that of aftermath
describe the falling)
like flower petals lanced—
the way motion stretches
objects in the eye, drop of rain
a needle, a blade—
by hail. Piano
strings, when struck,
(No music without
violence or wind)
vibrate
like muscle strands, weary
with the work of composing
each limb,
long after we can no
longer witness
(the crime
of their failing)
their dance. The body—just
a music box with bones. The blood—a note
that when plucked
(more like a guitar strings
or fruit, sweet & heavy
on its vine?)
blues—
the air bruised
dusk-dark by its sound.
My muscles sing
(soundlessly as gunshots
through water, or whale
song in sky—
the convenient metaphor)
an ugly
melody. All of my bones refuse
(the careful doubled
meaning, a word
& its shadow)
to harm
-onize.
The line break here, a welt
between breaths. A word
broken to reveal the violence
its simplicity contains.
Percussion is our oldest form
of song, slipped disk or tongue’s distance from psalm.
I beg
(entreat, implore,
or perhaps to pray
is a better synonym)
to be beaten—
& how convenient this word,
beat, that lives in both
the kingdoms of brutality & song
—into any-
thing more beautiful than gospel choir’s howl.
Music of the human
animal, the way that praise unhinges
melodies from the oppressive
mathematics of sound.
The singer’s voice, a cry
or moan tuned to the key of holy.
Despite this,
There is no prayer
(in speech
or song)
to save—
to pull, as in rapture
or a needle passing
through cloth—
me from my flesh.

You can’t have the bible without the belt.

< final draft >

Belt is Just Another Verb for SonG

“Pain blesses the body back to its sinner” — Ocean Vuong

Handcuffs around my wrists
lined with synthetic fur, my arms bound

& hoisted, heavenward, as if in praise.
Once, bodies like mine were seen as a symptom

of sin, something to be prayed away;
how once, priests beat themselves to sanctify

the flesh. To put their sins to death. Now,
my clothes scatter across the floor like petals

lanced by hail. Motion stretches objects
in the eye. A drop of rain remade,

a needle, a blade. Mark how muscle fiber
& piano strings both, when struck, ring.

No music without violence or wind.

I’ve been searching the backs of lover’s hands
for a kinder score, a pain that makes

my pain a stranger tune. Still, my body aches
an ugly psalm. All my bones refuse to harm

-onize. Percussion is our oldest form of song,
wind bruised into melody. Let me say this plainly:

I want you to beat me

into a pain that’s unfamiliar. How convenient
this word, beat, that lives in both the kingdoms

of brutality & song. The singer’s voice: a cry,
a moan, god’s name broken across a blade

of teeth. The riding crop & flog & scourge—
a wicked faith. A blood-loud devotion. 

There is no prayer to save me from my flesh.
You can’t have the bible without the belt.