The mornings are for poetry

The last time I was at church, I was in her bed.

You tell me what’s more holy:

Dry hymns from mouths forever hungry for empathy,

Or lips at my neck, my breasts,

My

Fingertips.

If there is a god,

She shows up in tangles of sheets and hair and legs.

When I am most grateful to feel the buzzing warmth beneath my skin,

The heart beating beneath my palm,

Has been in Bedframes.

Has been in soft arms, breast to breast, breath hitching, sweet slickness.

You ask about my church home, what denomination,

I’d say it is in my queerness,

I’d say that the only real religion is the one where I

Come apart.

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