Altar Call

Her corset tight and jade
in the moonlight and she
lights her cigarette  from
the butt of mine. Her hand lingers
as she brushes my fingers and
hands me back my
momentary crutch.
She crosses her gartered and stockinged legs
like a seasoned poker player
shuffling his cards. Sizes me up,
makes me feel small.

"So," she muses, her
dander up and her frosted blonde hair down
around her shoulders,
"why are you here?"
Her eyes make me
squirm, make me
hot, make me
sorry I came here, but I will not
be beaten by a set of sapphire accusations.

The room is unlit and filled with
clutter, little moments and memories
knick-knacked together, with
nothing of consequence on
any surface.
No self-pity here, no
heart of gold underneath the slime.
She knows who she is and
thinks nothing of my little quest.

My throat is cleared
without my command,
of its own accord, and I think that
it's a sign my heart knows
what to do next, maybe?
I wait a minute, hoping for some divine
intervention, or automatic response.
Nothing.
Oh, well.

Eyes closed for a fleeting molecule of time,
I search my memory
(for you)for who I used to be.
Moments in the sunlight,
laughter rings in the ears of my mind.
Your smile, my old convictions.
My arms around you.
Things used to be right,
or maybe they were just simple.

My heart gathers impressions
of our time together, with sweeping
proclamations of greener grass and better days.
You were my better days.
Real and lovely, if gritty and torn
Your kisses, your slow sleep-breathing,
heated exchanges of passion, or
passionate exchanges of insults.
They were here.
You were here.
You still are, in this moment.

(you)It fade(s); all things do, and
I'm left with images of
afternoons I can't have back.
New thoughts crawl
into the space left behind.
Recollections grow twisted and morph
into something else altogether.

I remember the scent
(of you)of the sanctuary.
Warm, the smell of cedar and
mingling perfumes from the
holy ladies who congregate and politely
stab each other in the back with
smiles and hugs and prayer requests all around.
And the expensive lighting, with
no mercy on pores that have seen
too many hours awake on Saturday night.

The preacher, who stands
unassuming, but all-important.
He makes his demands, his judgements
and claims. He smiles, confident in his
beneficence. Opens his arms and
invites all to join.
"Come, and be saved."
All you have to do is go.
All I have to do is go.

The invitation remains, to be
one of the pack, to receive
the wounds of gossip and hate
with the bandage of belonging slapped on top.
It seems obvious, that not
going will keep me safe.
So I stay in the pew and think of
(you)things that make me happy.
But my soul is lost,
and I mourn that loss, too deeply for tears.

Another throat cleared. My eyes
open to the unlit, cluttered room and
she is still perched on the desk across from me.
Impatience lifts her eyebrow as
she taps the ash from her cigarette
into the crystal ashtray beside her.
"Well? I don't have
all night."
No. Neither do I.

Standing up, I shuffle my feet a bit and
glance around the room.
Sad clowns on the wall,
kittens and coffee cups on the shelves.
This woman is a collector
of thrift store heartbreaks,
and junk shop beauty.
And behind me, next to the window,
a crucifix. Large and threatening.
My soul cringes.

I move forward, and touch
her cheek with my hand. Softer than
her granite words would lead me
to believe.
She lets me kiss her,
although she has no response. Warm and
firm, her breast beneath my hand.
I inhale sharply, and think
(of you)of my lost soul.
"I've come to be saved."