I have no home to take you to.
I nest in a small corner of an ill-lit manse;
the hallways are dusty with unuse, the kitchen
overrun by pests and smells.
I could bring you here, up the dark stairs,
and your hand in mine might steady me.
But the bed I might offer is bloodied,
stiff with memory. We might
flip the mattress, and the sight of
your back bent to the weight
would make me wet for the work of you;
but the old blood would seep through
and we would both be stained.
The transaction would be faulty;
the salt of your body would taste of violence
and not of lush, heated joy.
Where can I be but here? There is no Zion,
and I am content to be silent in the place
where all my secrets are housed.
Your body may be my Mecca but
I cannot lay down to pray.