We used to sing.
Our voices
Shrill, yet tender,
Under the roof
Of Saint Paul’s. Here
I held your hand
Beneath Mary Magdalene’s
Stained, red glass.
(Why is she red?
Embarrassed?
Impassioned? Both?)
It felt like a sin,
And, if I’m honest,
I thought of sinning,
Of stealing
Something like a kiss,
Which can’t be
Worse than eating
Something like a body.
My face, though,
My lips, were drawn
Up and away
From you.
But I know you felt
It (how could you
Not?), the sweat
On my palms;
How they shook
Then. Still
They shake when
My body tries to sing.
Photo by Ken Douglas
