His lankiness
and lopsidedness
tilted my head,
made me dizzy and sweaty
when he grinned over
his hands folded
in prayer
- goddamn!
in church even!
licking his lips
in the middle of
a righteous
“AMEN!”
forfeiting his passage
to the pearly gates,
compromising
mine,
his dark eyes
replayed the night before
in case I had
forgotten
when he,
the preacher’s boy,
tweaked
and suckled,
shooed the angels
right out of my head
swearing into sweet grass
he had never had
anything so good -
the choir stood
we stood,
baby lambs in white
glistening
in the light of Tiffany glass.
Adding your comment:
Love, Lane
And they say all boys who go to church are saintly 
