Sunday, September 22, 2013


You are my rite of initiation. You will lay your hands upon me and offer a prayer upon my skin. There is the spirit and there is the flesh; who's to say the holy is devoid of meat and muscle? What is the weight of the sacred? Your purpose is a gift.

That night the space between your ear and shoulder smelled like campfire. Your connection to the elements was not lost on me. I want to get lost in the woods of your limbs. Revelations happen in woods where density is protection. The sky is an overlap of God's dream, seen through the trees.

Your campfire neck is a sign of grace. Lacing my fingers behind your back I have confronted what may never return. Each cloud above is a river in heaven, a river that can't be stepped in twice. There is a shore along your collarbone, deserted. What washes up will be seen by no one. Who must be baptized in these waters but everyone? Our spirit sinks only to rise.

I can't say whether my god has been found. I can't pick up the sticks of a salvation that may have never been lost. There is a path around your cells that will lock me in for an eternity. Can we be whole? Can we be whole?

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