Father, forgive my tongue
& the taste inside her
mouth—the cold & stolen bible
study coffee we’ve been drinking
all this evening. I press my tongue
against her alveolar ridge
where flavor has settled.
Her father is preaching
an evening sermon inside
the sanctuary. I have never
been able to delve into worship
but I have been hungry for it
& whatever the congregation feels
in the echo of deep-voiced amens.
It’s intangible, untouchable but her
hair slips against my freckled
cheek in the hollow breeze.
Father, bless the fields
behind this Baptist church—once
chalk drawn with soccer
lines framing adolescence
now overgrown with July,
goalposts rusted at the joints.
The grasses host us every Sunday
night in the thick summer. Clover
patches soft with green & new rain
brush our bare ankles. Venus
glows with the setting sun
& my hand on her hip
slips beneath her shirt
to touch sweat-sticky skin. Forgive
my fingers that once dogeared
the New Testament & tore
pages from hymnals.
The earth keeps sinking
into the fading sky.
Bees flee to trefoil blooms
beneath us. Father, her breath
is like a vesper in my mouth.
