Blasphemy (A Dance with Magdalena)

To know God is to love God.

And love Her I do.
From Her lips, to Her hips.
Her toes and Her finger tips.
And ev-er-y (emphasis) part in between.

The nape of Her neck.
The twist of Her wrist.
(Oh Lord! - irony - The scent of Her soap and perfume.)
Her legs, Her thighs.
Her breasts, Her sighs. (My sighs. Breathless.)

The lids and lashes of Her eyes. (Lost, so lost in them.)

With tongue and fingers. (Tools of the trade.)
And words and whispers. (Peddling my wares.)
On (at) Her (your) altar, I prayed.

Gypsy, Savior, Pries(ess), Saint, Mother, Daughter, Sinner, Whore.
God, She is all of these and more.

Every time we touched.
I fucked God
(ess.)

Every time we fucked.
I touched God
(less.)

Looking up, as I drank from Her chalice, into the star(eyed) Heavens.
Communion. Eat of the flesh. A sacramental affair.

To know God.
Every trace of Her.
To know God.
Every taste of Her.
To know God.
Every (one) of the (many) of Her.
Is to love God.

Penitence. (Amen.)