Kisses melt like butter
in brown skin. My mind
wanders to lessons inside
white chapel on Bethany Street:
Now the works of the flesh are evident:
sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality.
You’re a cartographer-
tracing lines, sketching
the rivers that course
down my small peaks.
My lip curls in my mouth,
blood staining my teeth.
The pain a reminder of sin
that feels so good.
You lead me into your room:
a bed to the side.
Your warm hand tells me
this will be the night.
Clothes, prey to gravity,
crash to the ground.
Our primitive form revealing
what I covered every Sunday night.
Every other sin a person commits is outside the body,
but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body.
I look into your eyes,
glazed with lust, and my
hands tremble like a sinner
in church. I whisper:
Go gentle, it’s my first time.
Babble-merchants sold
stories of women crying
through the night. I was told
a stick would poke my insides.
You were different. I was open
like a clam showing its pearl-
luring you into my treasure,
and you took it, and it was warm
and wet inside my sea.
My whimpers purred
for your creamy milk
to wash my mouth of sin.
I wanted you, back arched for more.
A diamond did not glint on
my left finger. Your name,
property I did not possess.
Your home, a stranger to my own.
Let marriage be held in honor among all,
and let the marriage bed be undefiled,
for God will judge the sexually immoral.
Yet, we were one. And my body
was married to your Cuban
flesh which glided on
bright sweat, lit by the yellow
lamp above our heads.
I bit the apple and let
the snake ravish my body.
My soul will never
be cleansed of the mark
you made inside the Garden of Eve.
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