The doors to this
temple
beg reverence,
yawning wide
that I might
bow my head
sip
from silken chalice
of clavicle and skin.
I’ll come in
veil of curls,
feather-ringlets draped
to cover prayers
of tongue and teeth,
hot against the
the taste of
center,
this garden’s
hidden seed.
Let me kneel
before the altar,
press offerings
of dampened
silk on curves
thick with myrrh,
sugar-slick and
soft as
bruised persimmon.
Eden’s gates
are opening,
tomato-red and overripe
to spill, in runnels,
a warm communion—
fruit
of my flesh
of yours.