But of course these poems are
which we become by defining how
we are not women
a shadow devouring the light to find the limits
which is what Richard Pryor would have told Joan of Arc
in a joke funnier for being sexist
“It’s a man thang.”
And of course there is God
and its problematic relationship to light
not to mention the question
Who builds the box, the shape?
It makes sense that Jesus, the new man 2,000 years ago
was a carpenter.
You need that craft, the precision of measurement
angles of angels
who incidentally are never women.
Just ask the Romans, who called them Angelo, Angelus
that lie was coined by a dissident nun hiding
her feminism under the cover of rapture
is it enough to announce yourself?
To beat your chest in contrition calling
Mea culpa! Mea culpa?
Guilt can never be enough
Mere intent—where is its purpose?
Yet there are no answers
there are only lines that disappear
into horizons that girder us with safety
just as there is no way to end this poem.