There is much to be said
about the taste
of someone else's wife.
I worship her,
paint curves with church wine,
lay communion wafers
on the rise and fall of a breastbone.
Wafers like lily pads on a pond,
A path for the enchanted
Her heat melts under my skin.
I can feel charges unannounced,
receptors blooming open and ready,
trembling like a tulip.
My aging (catholic schoolgirl) knees tremble.
We make the sign of the cross.
Fingers kiss my forehead,
the hollow of my chest,
the boney knobs of my shoulders.
I breathe in the neighborhood,
where it clings to neck hollows.
The scent, a rush of sugar cookies,
fresh hung laundry,
The rise and fall of her breath
is a hymn.
How can they tell me
this is not what sacred is.
Christine Nichols is a student in the MFA program at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater, OK.