grandma, the baptist

a crone to my naivete

you crash in this bedroom

scarfing what i thought was Love off of my bed

it seems that He was soiled

so you drag him to the bath

cleansing Love of shame, which spoiled Him

now i can take Love in without suffering this pain

and this tenderness can grow into its fullness

resurrected neath my kiss,

this Lover in my mouth

tastes sweet as ezekiel’s scroll

to my fresh lips.

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M.C. Reardon

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