Idolatrous
A woman uncoils
from a pit of evangelicals.
Her breath caresses
my winter-bruised lips.
She says
Come throw stones
at the statue of a woman,
that soft-spoken glutton,
begging for more.
I whisper back
I was the one
who chiseled out her nerves,
and I made sure they went
past the curve of her neck.
I bathed her in blood.
I gave her a name.
From her chest, a choir erupts:
The World Is Not Our Home
The World Is Not Our Home
The Love, The Word
I know
I know
But capitalize on the flesh
And the bones will groan.
The choir capsizes:
your mouth
tastes like
silver.