Alternatives to the temple cliché
Maybe my body is a sandcastle
tucked above the lip of the tide
built with lopsided turrets
and an uneven seashell drawbridge
crooked, careful details
crafted just because.
Maybe it’s a cobwebbed windmill
that slowed to a standstill ages ago
with ivy reaching to cover the places
where the wood is rotting away.
Maybe it’s a butterfly house
that’s only closed for the season
or a paper mache monument to itself
or a gutted car that somehow is still running
or a condemned church
built from ash and apple cores
whose floor is fogged over with unholy handprints
stained glass shattered at the doorstep
where I keep crawling back to worship.