At the end,
my hair is washed.
My eyes glinted,
my fingers dipped.
I am covered in burnt caramel and nutty orange,
spicy bergamot and clean jasmine.
All that matters now is the painted God
on the ceiling—I am a child of a mouth-soft loving.
The honey at my altar is fermented and thick,
cupped by tender palms and sweet breasts,
heated by soft skin.
I want my temple to glow with wine-drunk recklessness;
warm and melty–as if rays from the sun had turned us gentle and sticky.
Place ripe figs where kisses ran,
coarse salt where tears pulsed.
Lay down the linen; slip the collarbones–
remember the movement of my shoulders,
glossy and oiled, soaking in the light.
Let the fish fly over my tomb,
painting migrations as I dissolve;
breaking like sugar on tongue. Silver
bodies: white and sweet.
When I return, let it be as blessed pollen,
sent by honeybees that have eaten my memory;
my joy humming from the Garden.
And if I stay, let me be caught in stained glass,
red as a beating heart, blue as the hush.
Let the light wrap my lips, throat, and hallows
of my chest.
The room tilts toward evening:
cool silk shadows climb my calves–
the sun forgives me tonight.
At the end, the fish keep flying,
shining, silver, tender.
At the end, the fresco breathes,
my God on the ceiling is gone,
and tonight, I am
clean.