At the Alter.

This is the sort
that lilts and flows
through the air like
the finest,
smoothest of silks.

This is the sort that plays
when you are on your knees
at the alter
with your fingers dug in
and a woman stands over you,
hair like shards of blackened glass,
and rests her small hands on
the back of your neck.

But when you look up
to the face of God
she is gone.

Advertisement