Like A Prayer

I know that I am wicked, the way my
fingers curl into you. The way the
hunger hardens into an edge.  The
way the red flesh parts to the core.

I think of the blood that will slick
my lips, I think of christ in the garden
fingering an apple. The gasp of cyanide.
Waiting for your hands to hold me
under the tide line of your hips. 
My mouth follows the maps of your
femoral arteries. Tell me the words
I am too close to see.
It is a season of ragged extremes
where thoughts are heresy and vulgar desire
trespasses against immaculate flesh.
The golden death rippling.
After a skin grows over the moment
and the air is scrubbed of oxygen.
I am ripe for redemption.  Licked clean
as a razor blade.




.