You never understood the point, the Word
of God in every hotel nightstand. Thought

it heresy. Don’t they know what happens here?
It became your secret fascination, logging

the different bibles we found on roadtrips, culling
a story from the wear of their spines. This room

has seen a whole lot of sinners, when a bible
undressed itself in your lap. Sometimes, you’d read

the annotations from a previous guest
out loud, an abridged confession in the margin—

I pray my husband can forgive me, next
to Hebrews chapter thirteen, verse four. We were

unmarried, sinners every time you cracked
me open like the good book. My spine its own

story—the bending, the way it rids itself
of cover, how it arches the fullest part

of me into your hands. Our bed is godless
each time you press me into it, and still

you shut me up with your scripture every time;
Don’t call on him now. Your Lord can’t save you here.