He took me to the old brick church, its ghost
white stones peering through midnight gauze,
and let his hands ease down my skin, almost
an ache, or a blasphemy. We both paused,
unsure if Christ could sense Ben's thumb betray
his wife's breast, or witness the trailing train
of female fingers too possessed to pray,
too full of darkened blood to be contained.
Hours past his departure, draped in young
morning mist, I ventured back to bricks
blistered in dew. Condensation clung,
a glister of liquid pearl, like sweat betwixt
abdomen and breast. Thus I stood, among
passionflower, birdsong and crucifix.
Janann Dawkins has work published or forthcoming in