I lift her naked breasts,
a chalice and paten,
one in each hand.
Of course I’m on my knees
with arms upraised,
eyes closed at an altar of such yearning:
for a taste of bread and wine,
a glimpse of promised land.
My lips and tongue caress her bellybutton,
that point at which she last let go,
and I am pleading with her: do not
let me, please, do not let me go.