In the beginning,
God said let there be light
& I—half-boy, half-salt—
unbuttoned my ribs to find
a mirror smuggled
in the shape of a kiss.
Mother said:
you will not find God there.
But I’ve seen Him.
He wears eyeliner
and a lip split with desire,
He hums Ed Sheeran’s Perfect
and touches me like
He’s afraid I’ll break into heaven.
I know
a cathedral is not always a building.
Sometimes it is the bend of a back
arching under the gospel of longing,
sometimes it is two men
braiding shame into worship,
unlearning fire
in the hush of sweat.
Do not tell me
the Spirit cannot come
between skin and skin.
Didn’t Jacob wrestle till morning
and call it blessing?
My lover’s hand is a ladder,
each finger another rung
toward God
& I am climbing.
Call it blasphemy
if you must,
but this is the only way I know
to pray:
naked,
kneeling,
with my mouth full
of another man’s name,
each syllable rising
like incense
from the altar
of my wanting.
O Lord!
if I am sin,
then let me be
a sin so radiant
it blinds
the eyes that refuse to see me.
Let me shimmer
like a psalm
written in the margins of the Bible:
still sacred,
still read,
still singing.
