SexSong Ressurection

Elise M. McClellan

I had always wanted to make love
in a church a god's home,
a color book catacomb of prism glass
and bead-eyes saints.

Not just
with anyone but
with you.

We were walking, talking one morning
our bodies filling with the pagan pangs
of sex.

The church was between mass.


We went in.

In rich intricate litanies we
rolled our tongues like prayer.

your palms, seeping psalms,
sang through my hair,
our bare skins incensed.

My legs fell from the ceiling
like angels while from everywhere

the windows stared with Jesusfriends.

And the Virgin,
eyes lowered to her toes,
where a snake spat apples.

The stained light painted your back.

I wanted to believe,

as we fell on our knees in a
sea of pews, that we were
consumating something.
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The 2River View, 1_2 (Winter 1997)