I hear there’s no flesh in heaven. But I stopped worshipping the moon because its swell glares like a cruel rendering of your throat, and why should I kneel before a cold imitation when you exist flushed and undimmed for revering.

I heard (thought, once) that the carnal and the holy are indistinguishable in their earth-bound forms. in darkness your throat rises serpentine, devilish beneath the flesh. The night wails; isn’t the moon just the whitened fingertip of Michealangelo’s god, pale with aching in its strain towards Adam?

The blood moon tempts: a tender body, the forbidden fruit, and your mouth trembles in wanting. I’d like to think your throat would gleam in devouring, tossed back defiantly beneath the glaring moonlight; holiness only reflecting off the carnal; god, forsaken.

-Ari