My childhood was velvet

The wooden chair dug into my skin
The priest recited,” This is my body”
“This is my blood”
And the wooden chair digs into the veins of my legs
My blood.

His childhood was black satin

It wraps his present day
His fluid body
Copies the fluidity of satin
Melancholy


We are raised by fabric
And the priest says, “This is my body”
“This is my blood.”