No Hail Mary

My bed is a place of worship —
its black sheets, its pillow-top.
This is the place where love
never runs out.
It sticks in my teeth.
It fills my mouth.
Imagine a rosary popped in
one bead at a time,
and a prayer that sounds a lot
like His name, over and over
— again and again.
God.
Your body.
God.
My body.
God.
How we nail our wrists to one another,
keep our palms flat,
and beg.
This is how we turn our tears to wine
and learn to sing the hymns
of our hearts — mouth over mouth
— dying
then dead
then risen again
— the arch of my spine
snapping back so hard He knocks
my breath back into me.
Amen, amen.
I’ve come again.

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