She brings the cup,
makes herself irresistible
in ways I never could master.
Time’s crumbling cathedrals
make us wary
of the dangers
of misplaced faith.

And who is to choose
which communion
is most holy?

You kneel at the rail —
drink from the golden cup.

You kneel at her bed —
drink from the golden hips.

The holy blood and flesh,
the sacred cunt —
what tyrannical god
could ever demand a choice?

And how could you do otherwise
in the face of their
grim and misleading authority,
but listen to the deep-voiced
mystic wind and world —
and let it lead you
to right?


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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