WHAT THEY COULDN’T STEAL

They have made a ruin of our temple.

They have slaughtered 777 sacred cows and ground them into meat.

They set up tents in parks, pass out Pabst Blue Ribbon, serve up blasphemy burgers with sour sides of pickles and lies.

“Do you want facts fried with that?” they ask, and the grave diggers shriek, “Yes.”

Save us Mother, for they are sin.

Our Lady of Perpetual Profanity has crowned herself queen, shined up her six chins with glitter, whitened her fangs, slapped a coat of forbidden fruit gloss on her lipless, skeletal grin. She slides white tights over cellulite, strives to compete with the moon, rule over the night.

She has hijacked the Christ, forced him to wear her ring, put a pistol to his head, said, “Sing my praises or else.” In a fit of self-aggrandizement, lo, our much un-beloved psycho queen shelves sanity.

Her Trailer Trash Brigade reigns supreme. “Get a rope,” they howl, and lynch the goddess in the street.

Some days I think they have murdered everything that mattered, but then

I remember you, dancing under moonlight, outshining the stars.

What they couldn’t steal was your heart between my hands, pounding out its secrets, and how I listened, memorized them word by word, went back and studied the spaces, the things you couldn’t say.

What they couldn’t steal was that day you stood five feet away and said “I love you” with your eyes, and no one knew, no one would ever know our secret, but for those 55 seconds, no one knowing was ok.

What they couldn’t steal was the miracles, the way we morph one another’s mundanity into magic, how you walk each night on the water of my mind, stilling waves.

When days are dark, and sharks circle, I remember the way the asphalt rippled as you stood on it. Like me, it longed for nothing more than to melt into your skin.

Next time around, I will come back as a swirl on your thumb, a bump on your tongue, a white crescent moon rising at the tip of your toenail.

This time around, I am one giant foot, shod with the preparation of the Gospel of Your Throat.

You have un-Judas-ed me.

You have de-Delilah-ed my mind.

You have redefined the whore in me as Madonna.

You made art of my heart,

Sistine Chapel-ed my soul.

My DNA sings your praises.

My toes have become New Testaments.

My very elbows reek of God.