(While In Bed)

I saw God hidden in the female form,
as you were spread before me on our bed.
At that moment, a sacrament was born:
your pleasure my wine, your body the bread.

I did not listen when they said such things—
their odes to goo and bodily function.
But now, I’ve come to some understandings,
like the shape of your joy when you’re undone.

I need not your sweet touch to excite me:
that lovely look on your face is enough.
My mouth, my hands, were made to pleasure thee;
my doubts, my anxiety, long sloughed off.

Among the soft pillows, we are echoes.
In our dual love, our hymn crescendoes.

(Out-of-Bed Clarity)

If you think about it, “sex-positive”
sounds like a diagnosis, like something
clinical, so weirdly provocative:
“This person is diagnosed with fucking!”

It sounds like, you know, an anomaly,
a glitch in the matrix, like, “Look at this
randomly generated NPC,
fuckable after a talk and a kiss.”

I think stones understand it, in a sense:
the idea of sex being a verb,
a beyond-the-body experience.
Sexlessness as a state of being. Words

can’t do right by what I’m trying to say.
How can I explain Being, in this way?