Our bed is the prayer rug where I found God.
Yeah, THE God –
Not circumnavigating morality
Or bones of old saints
Lonely illusions of the sad and middle-aged
All Fat Tuesday freakshows in comparison
Our bed is the altar of sacred rites –
Marked with the devil’s big black Sharpie
And the intricately crocheted lace of sin
Nightly baptized in warm, honey-coated nothing
Pink patterns of iron and salt on linen
Painted idols on the shrine –
Absolution pours through drafty windows
Older than our bodies
Glass frosted by years without suds
Only rain
A holy city of yours and mine –
With gentle pyro ways
Stone and mortar become flame
The balustrades collapse
You light candlewicks with your fingertips
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC