Some lovers study the structure --
gnawing the bones through
to the wine-drenched marrow,
while others sink their teeth
into succulent flesh -- meat and fruit --
of torch songs, wild tales, ragged breaths;
of torn pages and broken spines, wine
bottles passed mouth to mouth --
eyes shining; beards, breasts, lips, chins
glistening, the holy carpet thoroughly,
irredeemably soaked and stained.
There's room at the cross for everyone
but, a wordsmith's fair warning --
muscle, pulp and fat soon to wither on the rack,
spoil and sour, to the elements returned,
scattered, leaving the corporeal body
to its hardy blades, clubs, cages, pins and flaps;
the fruit to its rinds and seeds, for the scholars
and preachers, priests and theologians
to suck upon, chew and pick over in the age
to come of the estrangement, the diasporas,
the darkness, the trough and the lone wanderings.
O child of God, every lover's path is determined
in precise accordance to the grace of God.