Only gods grant prayers
and my supplications are unholy.
A different type of Communion.
I want to drink
the molecules of bourbon clinging to your lips.
I want to kiss
the parts of your mind that are tender.
I want to taste
you tasting me tasting myself tasting you.
I want to transubstantiate
in your arms.
I want to be altered on the inside.

Fallen angels used to
“know”
beautiful women;
embracing the extravagance of flesh.
Your namesake had no nephilim.
He resisted
our lips our breasts our thighs
our hair our scent our eyes.
Other spirits weren’t content
being denied 
soft warm sweet salty slippery shapely
willing
women, already on their knees 
for worship.

I thought you might be a different kind of deity
so I flew upward to the heavens like Icarus 
toward the gods of pleasure 
with my waxen wings
hoping to reach you
but always falling short;
crashing;
burning.
Am I going in the wrong direction?
Then I shall acquire a pomegranate 
for passage to the underworld
where I can be your concubine
as you maintain balance and order
from your onyx throne.

The angels were never punished for their lust.
It was pride that doomed them
but the god of that faith
created flesh;
made it holy;
designed it to be Good
and overlooked that weakness—
even excusing the women 
for being enticed 
by beautiful specimens from which the mold was made.
You broke that mold
       and here I am
       on my knees
       ready to receive your sacrament.