"Come to church with me," I begged,
with my hands spread to the backs of your thighs.
"Do you think that's wise,
pretty soap-winged angel?"
Leave it to a Cherokee Gypsy to fill me with the spirit in spite of myself;
to see in me
a woman who can create her own saints.
"I love you," I managed, through serious desire;
and from my knees,
I let my fingers open the hymnal,
wetting my lips for my tongue to find song
in the holy indigenous language of joy.
linked to dverse OLN #35