(6Gr) ὃς ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ ὑπάρχων οὐχ ἁρπαγμὸν ἡγήσατο τὸ εἶναι ἴσα θεῷ

(6En) who, possessing¹ the nature² of God, did not consider it robbery³ to be equal⁴ with God,

¹I chose this wording, eschewing the ἐν that naturally occurs, in order to bring out the meaning of ὑπάρχων. This word (Strong 5255) connects to (Strong 5223) ὕπαρξις, which is the term for a possession or property.
²Hotly debated word throughout the ages, I translated it as “nature” in order to avoid the theological slipperiness of “form.” Though both meanings are possible, Paul’s use of “equal with God” makes it clear that “form does not get across the whole story.
³The use of “robbery” here makes tons more sense when contrasted with Paul’s use of “possession” earlier.
⁴The word here is is-os, meaning “equal,” which you might remember from the math term isosceles, meaning “equal legs.”

That’s covered in germs. Don’t touch
it, she said when
I looked down,
found the glimmering
brown feather, the hawk’s flight suspended

in the grass.
I did not ask
questions like, Why
does the wind push
birds to the earth? or
How does a child lose
its feathers?

No; I touched the edge
of my lips to keep
the words from flying
away. The feather lay suspended

in my eye,
fingers curling around my mother’s,
dull talons on a nest.

I turn earth over your face,
hoping seeds sprout in autumn.

The habit she can’t lose,
the drug she can’t quit,
the one who holds her
from behind,
stroking her hair
and pulling it.

Blues ooze from
the gash of his mouth;
he can’t wade out
into the swirling pool.
He’s devout
as far as
he can feel
with a three
foot pole and legions
of eyes nailing
him to the soiled tile wall of the
subway.

Does He keep mementos
of His moment in death,
pulling them out of a
splintered box each week,
like we do?

Perhaps it doesn’t
bug Him, like spots on a
mirror He keeps close.
Or does it remain like a
hurricane on a spindle,
turning slowly, once and always?

I will wring it out,
tying it up at one end
so that it holds the brass
baubles with my marks
on them.

And God, that hoary
head that rises from the
stones, will strap it to
His belt loop, holding
me by the shoulders
in the warm moon
of eternal summer.

I take them around the compound,
pointing out bits of import:
here the mother clutched her child
while they were both shot,
by the rusty gate I vomited
green that came from my soul.

Some snap
pictures, a few
weep, others take
notes lazily,
half-awake
in the lecture hall.

The main attraction, the Jew
who knew the hiding place
of fifty more but said not
a word, taking his mustard
like a man and lying
on the grating with a crooked smile.

More weep, more
take pictures,
some hang
their heads.

The tour complete, I wander,
starved, into a furnace, pushed
by a man with blonde hair
and a t-shirt, half-awake.

I’ll be up again in a week
for another tour.
Class dismissed.

I pilfer strips of flesh
from the backs of those
who wander near.

I sew each fresh skin-
piece over the bleached
knobs and cracks.

I fill up the holes,
building a towering chest
out of my brothers.

I build organs, a heart,
from the slices I snatch
from the sides of my sisters.

I pick out shards of my father,
clumping together the sharp
and the dull, shoving
them inside.

I accept every patch of my mother,
weaving them through my toes,
tying them at the end with knots,
stringing them up on a rafter
after I’m done.

The cells stick together and cling
like fire to a broken bough.
My blanket holds me, shields me
from the ice-marrow wind.
Throbbing with whispers of future
and friendship, swelled with blood
that seeps out in conversation
and clinking glasses, I am threaded.