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.
Empty.
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.
The
2River View, 1_2 (Winter 1997)
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