Wall to mantel the choirs of statues blaze, but no virgin’s glare could annul our sermon. Blow argent smoke from your mouth, a pink and porcelain censer. Grey curls bloom in amber light from the streetlamp, ghost lilies in our urban Eden. A drop gives in and plays lead on the glass stained by our breath.

Newborn, my arms hang from your shoulders, ankles crossed with yours. Your chin prickles my forehead. We are a carnal crucifix. Blood-rust rings from my glass brand a triquetra on your stomach: still tense. Five disciples stroke my scalp, run through the sweat-knot scourge. My knees weep on the ivory-white sheet from my last pillow-less confession.

Silent in your possession, an echoing hymn of exhalation. Your communion is a spatter on the mattress, already soaked in. Cool constellations on my calf. Here in our sanctuary, there’s a murmuring crusade, their huffing organs a dirge to grind against. A few muted thuds from upstairs. Our voyeur above enjoyed the show.

{First published in December 2016 by Fincham Press in the 'Purple Lights' anthology}

5 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Hungry Him

He disturbs the bed super-imposing crumpled sheets like a mistake left on a page, proof of impatience with a hunger for lead or an artist’s tongue to draw a line, on hips virile brackets to exist with

A Mother Introduces the Storm

Rain comes eliminating the sky with glass shards falling down to make heads bow melting my clothes into cold outlines limits of my skin exposed forcing me to exist and witness entranced like the first

Bedside Surgeon (a Grindr poem)

Yours is a precision arm a reach which could make spines forget legs or left forget right tongue forget tongue your screen unlocked head bowed in prayer private and away your face a mask of orange neo