To My Filthy Sister
for Jillian
The cock your feet have measured
crows in your mouth like the gin
I would ply you with
if you weren’t already bent,
screwing me with hips thrust
from knees in scraping prayer;
God it’s not enough
to stuff you full and so
my fingers turn to hands
and I cast you from the inside;
well-wrought, you cleave to confine
my connotation in your sense;
our innocence incensed
by eucharistic scents
we collapse, wholly spent;
no longer Saul but not
yet Paul, we’re transfigured
and, by Christ, we are one.
Burlesque Press 