anno Domini Holy Dance
Head tucked in the
cross of my legs, my fingers needle in and out, entangled in his thick black
hair. Emerge pale and thin, wearing a coat of sheen. An Israelite ever
wandering in wilderness; he is closer to me here than anywhere else.
Magnetized, he
snakes between my existence; arm tucked about my waist, thumbs knead tense
muscles, fingers run over my knee. He grabs tight to my hand, raising his arm
as shadow to my own. His praise, echoes. My hair encloses his face now, skims
his shoulders. He wears it like a wig.
I will become even more undignified than
this,
and I will be humiliated in my own eyes.
A mannequin of
polite example; rooted, I do not turn to notice if the parishioners behind us
watch our dance. The weight of my palm upon his leg anchors him but for a
moment. He jingles coins in windmill hands.
Accept this
sacrifice,
oh, gracious God.
MD
Marcus
MD
Marcus is a freelance writer and poet who loves keys, the color blue, and a
good nude illusion. Her work has appeared on Salon as well as in Another Way Round,
The Drabble, Eunoia Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Communicators League, “Motherhood
May Cause Drowsiness,” among others. Please read everything she writes and
visit her on Instagram or at mdmarcus.com
Tags:
Poetry