i’ve never been a woman of religion.
i simply do not have the time;
passing like silken hair threaded through fingers
or the slip of tongues intertwined.
my faith lies far from hymnals.
she addresses my body like it’s religion
and her altar is my sunken hips.
she bites into the holy loaves of my thighs
and sips sweet wine from my lips.
her touch is my first taste of heaven.
her nails scribe pinkened confessions
as welts into my skin. a votive flame in my gut—
fervent yet flickering.
how many times can someone cry out for God
in a night? and is she calling for me,
or for an omniscient being, watching,
like a voyeur, with envy from up above;
one of his angels buried between my legs,
devoted and desperate
to evoke from my throat
clandestine choral notes?
in the shadows, amongst the unfurling of our divine affair,
our bodies tangled, with inseparable limbs,
sheltered, embraced by her wings,
we become a prayer.