In the early days the Celts--having been converted to Christianity--took their new God to task, daring Him to abandon them, they'd set out in rudderless

boats with a stock of dried fish, water, salted potatoes, and a smooth rock for shittings. Hardly baptized, they feared nothing now that they too were chosen. A miracle not more of them died, but merely capsized, praising God for their deliverance; though others--less lucky--perhaps tasted Jesus in the water they drowned in. What's faith but unswerving foolishness? Giving up the guidance of one's life so one might be guided? I envy their humility.

My craft? Your blesséd body, on which I set my stock and story: Breasts the clayey smoothness of a pocketed rock, golden hair haloed when the beach light breaks, eyes the color of sea water trapped in a bottle, arms sinewed like a rower's, thin fired lips, bitten nails a barometer of nervousness, and the arc of your sextant sex marking the moon's passage.

Am I any less foolish to hang it all on what passes? Jesus I cry out when we're making love and I'm coming. Jesus. Jesus. The angels press their expectant faces against the glass, they've ridden with us before. My toes curl against the floor while you lift yourself up with fingers entwined behind my sweat-oiled neck. It's one of their faces I see now when I look into yours, someone who is beyond faith, simply holding the gunnels, rocking, lips murmuring a prayer outside my hearing.