If the government aims to kill us
who is going to pay the taxes
on our abortion
I’m an apostate of the dire press
but you press your lips to mine
and I find myself believing
I know you pray for rain
and sometimes it rains;
I know you cant my name
and sometimes I come.
If that’s science,
call me to the priesthood
in your temple,
devoted to the liturgical sway of your thighs,
the last bastion of true revelation
in Thomas’ bed.
If I don’t stir,
I may have succumbed to the pesticidal apple.
Wake me to your kiss
and the calluses in your gold-hatted irises
so I can be alive for the resurrection
of my faith.