I wanted to know I had a body –
for no body is eternal.
As child, the Canon taught me how
to count on fingers of one hand.
In this way, I was fifth –
for he counted in order of who to love.
God, a mighty thumb, bulbous and worthy.
Family, an index less important than God.
Friends, an equator running the hand.
I kept my ring finger for those I did not know.
Then me. Tiniest, least significant, furthest from God.
The most unlike the thumb. In every way.
Now an adult, the Canon’s teachings
make a paragon of my hand.
Still, in the night
I find myself unable to love my body.