When You Confuse His Name with Absolution

Tell me the last time you felt
holy
without his hands on you.

Open your heart like a prayer book
and pull out the rosary beads
one by one;
spill them down the aisle of the church,
make a note of every one that bears his name.

Remember the way your mother
used to remind you
“your body is a temple”
Remember there was no addendum;
no “only when he’s inside of you”.

There is a cross of ash
imbedded in the grey matter of your brain;
it rises to the surface every time
you pray to see him again.

Fat Tuesday laments in shame,
reminds you
it’s a symbol that you have purged yourself of all unclean things.
Instead, light a candle for him.

Tell me the last time you said
“I love you”
without simultaneously asking for forgiveness.

Tell me the last time you felt
holy
without his hands on you.

Sacrilege

To me,

your hands might as well be gods;

if this is so,

I will gladly convert to polytheism.

Because with each breath,

the rise and fall of my chest,

praise is escaping

my body.

I worship 

the feel of your hands 

as they climb across the hills and valleys

of my being,

building me up into the person

you want me to be,

and with one grab 

causing me to crumble;

I am left undone.

I find it completely ironic

that as my head is pressed to the floor

in reverence,

you lift me from under my arms and

tip my chin up,

telling me that 

you are the one who should be 

bowing down 

because 

if you are any sort of god

you need a dwelling place.

You press your lips close to my ear

begging to inhabit me;

because regardless if I am guilded in gold,

or if there a curtain separating those less holy 

from my inner sanctum,

you assure me that

I am a temple,

and you are in rapture,

longing to immerse yourself in me

when we join together in glory.