My Sunday Best
I knew he had never been to church,
maybe part of his appeal.
He had rebelled against something else.
I wanted to find out what drew
the corners of his mouth into a smirk
like mine.
He wanted to be saved.
In my best Sunday dress, I lay
on the floor in front of him,
legs spread like a hymnal.
He sat disappointed like
his only chance at redemption
had spread wings and flew out
of my vagina and out the door.
He slumped to the carpet in
defeat until he was tasting
the wine soaked wafer that
had rested on my tongue.
“God is an illusion” he heard
and he sank, reassured into
my Sunday best.
Lady Chavez
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