The doors to this temple beg reverence, yawning wide that I might bow my head sip from silken chalice of clavicle and skin.
Iโll come in veil of curls, feather-ringlets draped to cover prayers of tongue and teeth, hot against the the taste of center, this gardenโs 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.
Edenโs gates are opening, tomato-red and overripe to spill, in runnels, a warm communionโ fruit of my flesh of yours.