i don’t go to church on sundays, but i do spread the poetry books across the coffee table, the ones
full of fruit and kisses and other sweet things
i want to share. i watch you place your palm
upon the covers
and it feels like a benediction.
some people speak of bodies and blood,
of bread and wine and something larger
and more powerful than themselves.
we speak of creation. works by our own hands.
you aren’t much for religious symbolism
but on sunday afternoons, with the miracle
of your secret smile, my easy laugh?
i call it the sacrament of you and me.
let us be damned
so long as we are damned together.
RANKEST HERESY, by jones howell