first, put a clean blade
under your fourth rib
and jesus will crawl right out of your lungs, bearded and bushy-browed
you expect him to say what took you so long but he just
scampers off barefoot without so much as a glance at you
oh pillar of salt and tears and sweat licked off your lover’s navel (harlot harlot)
jesus escapes your body like urine
then the gods enter, sharp as nicotine
they gather under the pavilion of your throat, their braided beards turning gray
whenever you cum or cut out sections of your cervix but on sunday
sundays are the good days because god’s there the capital g- god
reaching through your fourth rib to forgive if you only beseech him child (ask ask)
ask him to kiss your throat and moan into the hard space between your breasts
ask him to taste the orphaned prayers crusted yellow around your lips
ask him
why sin smells like pomegranates
Header photo by J. Dionne.
So wonderfully written, the cylical relationship we have with faith – betraying us, validating us. We always seem to come back to it. Thank you!