I tell myself it’s not a sin. You say no. Non.

Never emphasis on word, sealed with a kiss.

How serious then are we, church returned, absolved.

You, blessed as a saint, light, you remove each ribboned shoe,

gentle kiss light on each ivory thigh, your look smile

it says Really! I sit, still penitent –

“I ought give you up for Lent,” I say

Still scented of rose holy unction.

You, another kiss to reassure

I take your tongue still tasting of church port,

our savior, our salvation

“and lead us not into temptation…”

The commingled, some miracle transubstantiation.

We are transformed. Mutable, mercurial.

A miracle in the moment.