In The Deep Museum Analysis

My God, my God, what queer corner am I in?

Didn't I die, blood running down the post,

lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin

of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost?

Surely my body is done? Surely I died?

And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?

Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied.

Yes, I lied. Or else in some damned cowardice

my body would not give me up. I touch

fine cloth with my hand and my cheeks are cold.

If this is hell, then hell could not be much,

neither as special or as ugly as I was told.

What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way

toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place

as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray>

It is panting; it is an odor with a face

like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores.

It is hurt, I think, as a I touch its little head.

It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and whores

and now must wait like old Jonah, not dead

nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal. A rat.

His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook,

knowing his own ground. I forgive him that,

as I forgave my Judas the money he took.

Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips

as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take

my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips

and wrists. For three days, for love's sake,

I bless this other death. Oh, not in air --

in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots,

under the markets, under the sheep bed where

the hill is food, under the slippery fruits

of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws

of rats I commit my prophecy and fear.

Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.

We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.