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?


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