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And what, preacher, would you have me repent for?

For southern baptist whimsy?

In the church courtyard on the bench you paved

I sat there and he sat there and you watched.

Clutching cross to chest.

Dragging your fingertips across the chain.

Leaving fingerprints on the pendant.

Should I repent for the initiation?

Seeking out what it is I wanted?

Because it’s something you won’t do.

You are the chain wrapped around the church.

It’s spiny fingers rubbing you the same way.

Leaving fingerprints all over

as you pass the offering plate, a beggar.

I’d climb the steeple and fuck him again.

So you could watch.

Our defiling widespread

for as far as the steeple reached

In your eyes the climax of sin

In ours, only the climax

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