On your knees at her sepulcher,
mouth your hail marys from memory
thank the names of matriarchs pressed together between lips
thank you mary, thank you sarah
rebecca thank you thank leah you thank rachel thank
thank thank you for skin like sin and
hips like sin and
holy holy holy
thank you sin.
Press yours psalms in the palms of her hands
like confession and
devour her like a eucharist like
a sacrifice like meat body blood wine and bread
a feast for shadows pressed into holy atoms between bodies
she is a little death like a growing tree or a belly-rumble landslide,
a vengeful old testament god or a merciful new one—
either way, she will bring rapture soft or hard around your eyes
at first there was darkness
and then everything came alive in her name
and stars exploded and terraformed gods and
landmasses and mountains in the swell of her hips.
she is ocean, she is stone. and she is savior and damnation
but never angel—
don’t call her angel. Don’t
degrade her like that.
On your knees, accolyte,
altar boy, priest,
moan your liturgy against her belly
confess what you know and she will
erase and redraw the stars in your image,
stories and all.