Prayer

Late afternoon

when dust from morning cars

settles and lies, a translucent veil

over sunned streets,

we come together in this darkened room.

We tear each other open –

dip into blood and brush fingered glyphs on skin,

taste the pulp of bone,

consume each other, as if we will last forever.

Our flesh turns liquid and flows

in rivulets toward nightfall,

and as they course, our fluid selves sing.

Is this not true religion?

The vapor of breath on skin,

the kneading the turning the kneading,

of one into another,

the ebb and surge of sweet congress,

as two wordless voices stab silence.