Booze barn's closed on Sunday,
so we walk to the shop-and-rob.
Somewhere along the way, we
forsake five-buck Chardonnay
for Blue Bell coffee ice cream.
"It's better this way," you say:
"I'm a man of God, after all."
(Intent dies with a whimper
in the ditches where His
lesser creatures live.)
We buy two pints even
though it's pushing 90,
then drink each other's breath
on your doorstep 'til we melt.
We should never have entered.
On your coffee table rests a
pretty pair of boxing gloves.
You shrug like it's coincidence
and say: "I could take you out,"
leaving plausible deniability
like Catholic school dances
leave room for the Spirit.
(I know it's hypothetical, but
possible seems probable and
I left my nerve in plaid skirts.)
So we watch a stupid movie.
I smile and stay quiet and
take you like Communion.
You fuck me Saturday,
your prelude to prayer,
head bowed, repenting
sins not yet committed.
(Idols are not gods.
We do not forgive.)
so we walk to the shop-and-rob.
Somewhere along the way, we
forsake five-buck Chardonnay
for Blue Bell coffee ice cream.
"It's better this way," you say:
"I'm a man of God, after all."
(Intent dies with a whimper
in the ditches where His
lesser creatures live.)
We buy two pints even
though it's pushing 90,
then drink each other's breath
on your doorstep 'til we melt.
We should never have entered.
On your coffee table rests a
pretty pair of boxing gloves.
You shrug like it's coincidence
and say: "I could take you out,"
leaving plausible deniability
like Catholic school dances
leave room for the Spirit.
(I know it's hypothetical, but
possible seems probable and
I left my nerve in plaid skirts.)
So we watch a stupid movie.
I smile and stay quiet and
take you like Communion.
You fuck me Saturday,
your prelude to prayer,
head bowed, repenting
sins not yet committed.
(Idols are not gods.
We do not forgive.)
Isaura Ren is an emerging poet from the Bay Area. She's just happy to be here. Her work has appeared in The Green Light and Sea Foam Mag. Follow her on Twitter @isaurarenwrites.