he says his sunday prayers into your skin;
takes his communion in the hollow of your bones,
in the sharp lines of your hips. you are
all three: his altar; his holy water;
his two knees, bent.
you drink the hymns from his lips.
this makes you holy, makes you sacred,
makes you a god.
how does it feel to be divine?
forget church. your body is a fucking temple,
and he’s on his knees again,
and you’re laughing.