There is a monk
who lives in the solemn monastery
of my chest

silent and robed
with stooped shoulders
and quiet shuffling feet.

He prays
devout little fellow
in the dark antechamber of my ribs
and if I close my eyes
I can just barely feel him,
there, near the back
by the sloping shelves of my spine.

I carry him around.
He prays and shuffles and sleeps
and the day continues.

But when I see you
he pads, silently,
to the altar of my heart
but it’s not my heart

it’s a gong

that rings to the sound
of him singing, the little monk,
proclaiming in a beautiful soaring tenor
the hymns of your name.