Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch

“Burn Ovid”―Austin Clarke

Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.

I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, *******, ******.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.

What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her ******* rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?

“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,

cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,

my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:

all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.

Keywords/Tags: Ovid, god, religion, church, Sunday school, ***, lust, desire, passion, choir, hymn, hymns, devout, devotion, faith, purity, chastity

The squall rousted the last of the roses,
a flutter amongst the mango blossoms.
The storm billowed with savage abandon,
a waterfall cascaded down the wall.
Lightning graffiti scrawled across the sky,
charcoal thunder rattled the fogged windows.

I held her trembling hand and stroked her back
as she leaped at the sound of every crack.
We breathed in rhythm — a steady tempo —
in-out, in-out, our tempest ritual.

He came to report a discovery
of roe while cleaning the rohu for lunch.
Spicy fritters added to the menu —
swift improvement to inclement weather.

dusk: golden, slow
musk: fading with the rain
—i was in the summer of my life

we ambled along the railway
all the way to the west
my heart so heady and blurry
and we were still walking

yet i felt i belong to a foreign place
i had yet to know,
but i know that's where i should be

i don’t care to find love.
not in this world.
not where promises are b o r n to die.

Sundayish
with sun on us
remembered dishes
passed from smile hand
to hand

The love does not diminish,
immutable,
like all the good stuff

I’ll hold mine in reserve
for every one of you I miss

Just when I thought I had forever
I got lost in my emotions
and now I cry because I know that you are no good for me.
But I hate feeling so alone
so of course I hit up your phone
You say come over ; you always get the best of me
Yet you bring out the worst in me.
Now we're done and all I can taste is you.
I whimper to myself because was it worth the pleasure?
Before coming here I felt like I diamond
but as I leave I feel like buried treasure.
I always told myself this wouldn't last forever
We eventually lost the real connection.
Then I realized there's no use in all this time we're spending
Holding in all the anger at the bottom of the ocean
I hoped you'd be my savior
the *** had me distracted
unaware of your behavior
I knew that I was drowning but I didn't know you were the
Anchor.

...

On Sundays, I drink
more coffee and more whiskey.
Reflections on the previous week
provide for accurate predictions
about the week ahead.
Books and snacks go down easily.
Attaining clear focus
helps the writer observe society
to build the words
that raise spirits
and raze evil.

–Ron Gavalik