Oil and Myrrh

I

There is no simplicity
in the motives of another man

How she’d never hear the sound of her own humming

Could not contemplate the slices
of an orange, of rind & flesh

Understand earth
through the soles of her feet

There would be music
made only from machines
the monotone piercing
an electronic origination
not from the hands of humans
or the skins of animals

And the touch of wires and tubes
would impress themselves deeper
than the touch of fingers
save one thumb
slick with oil and myrrh
In the name of the Father . . .