My body is a temple

I'm as supple as a prayer in my skin
today. Just the steel cross in my neck,
yoke of pressure above my eyes, chalice
of pain in my lower back. Yesterday
it was a different matter, teams
of worry worms sewing their stuff
into a prison, some old catastrophe
percolating in the tabernacle of my gut.
And yet the osteopath told me nothing
was happening below my neck,
my body as still as a church on Monday
the congregation holding its breath
especially those in the left hand aisle,
playing invisible, like a terrified child.