The wine on my lips is
Unsanctified
Full
Heavy with berries, rich in
Languid summer heat
Lips parted on a red so deep
Ochre, mercury, cinnabar
Dried blood
Tip of the tongue
Pulling in the errant drops
Not like the altar cup
That long spring night, the
Scent of lilies and hyacinth
Smoke from the censer
So strong I felt dizzy
On my knees in the dark
My heart aching with need for
Something bigger than its own desires
The calm of another pain
Like dragging the point of the pin
Over my arm again and again
In the basement bathroom
With mushrooms in the grout
But bigger, older
The crown of thorns
What did I know at sixteen?
But that the dark murmurs
Close to my skin
Through the perfumed night
Under the beams of the upturned ark
Left me feeling holy
Emily Benson writes poems of humanity, longing, and nature. She lives in Western New York with her husband and two sons. Ms. Benson has previously been published by The Esthetic Apostle, Unstamatic, Airlie Press, and in Hey, I’m Alive Magazine. Her poem “Body” will appear in High Shelf Press, Issue XXVI in January 2021.
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