The Throat
Or, Santa Monica, August 11 2004
My god you have not been idle,
I never should have doubted you.
Here I thought, to coin a phrase,
there was nothing new under
the sun. But all along, it seems
you have been up to your old tricks,
creating beautiful things
and setting them in motion
on this feeble world.
All those years of Catholic school,
of altar boys robes and kneeling,
of wafers on the tongue
and begat, begat, begat
did nothing for me, until
this moment.
I commend you, truly;
this sinner is set free.
This is a rapture, I am sure.
I can only assume this is what
St Jerome felt, or whoever it was.
Or am I thinking of
the burning bush?
It kneels before me now,
impossibly warm,
impossibly deep,
impossibly tight,
opening like a flower
in bloom to consume
me. Wholly. A first.
The petals and stalks
of far Cathay, exotic
and yes, admittedly,
desperate, but I am desperate
too, and I just got paid today.
Some miracle must be taking place,
even if the water is not wine
at the end. But this is my body.
Eat of it and be saved, save me.
I truly believe.
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