You stood with your eyes on me
like I was a television screen,
the local 7 o’clock reporting on the latest raccoon statistics.

Months
I had waited like any good Catholic should.
With patience. With humility. With purity --
enough purity to pierce a porn-addict’s heart.

And finally you had whispered that
nectarous parable against my collarbone.
It had burned like the elixir of
consecration down my throat.

I picked up a coffee mug and plunked it in the sink,
swill water sloshing.

“No you don’t. Don’t say what you don’t mean.
I don’t need you
to say anything.”

You slipped a dish in after my cup and
the swell crested upon my sleeve.
You took my wrist,
pressing at the sopping sin with a crusty dish towel.

“But I do! God... why don’t you believe me?
Is it because it took me longer to say it?”

The dryer surged in the back room with a froth of sweaters.
I took back my wrist and loosed the apron
from around my hips.

“I’m going to church.”

You sigh and lean back against the countertop.
I bend to my shoes by the door.

Suddenly you are putting your shoes on too.
Has something happened to the raccoons?
My jacket is draped over my shoulders and the car keys are crashing against the door
and the hallway is in shadows and we are out in the heady sunlight and the engine bubbles to life.

“What do you think you’re doing!?”

“I’m coming with you.”