art, barrow wraith, edge of my skin, grave-fresh thighs, Japanese Shinto priestess, miko, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sonnet, why faith destroys
I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes
I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies
I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I
have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy
us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,
love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,
knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?