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Forgive me Father,
I still desire my desires.
Once, I vowed to color myself between your lines.
I buttoned collars, folded my hands.
I didn't cut the heads off pansies in the window box.
But I grew tired of God,
His cold perfection,
the savior bleeding prettily on my wall.
Something vital pressed from deep inside.
As I walked across the meadow,
he appeared to me—long hair, leather jacket and a touch
so soft across my collarbone I knew he had to be
an angel. I had never felt such flame.
I am beyond pure.
Our fire remains in my body.
Training is no match for life.
While the telephone shrieks and dishes grow in the sink,
I eat strawberries. My feet
pull themselves from proper shoes.
Strange sounds emit from my lips.
When guilt strikes, I try counting beads, but blossoms
on the altar tumble wantonly before my eyes.
I tongue the wafer, swallow wine. The crucifix
becomes two bodies, locked.
I try kneeling but my bowed head
reaches upward like a tree.
I am left with hunger, tangled hair, your promises,
empty as heaven.