Sacred Sex

It's the first day of spring
and things are heaving
among the detritus
of last summer's perennial beds.
Crocuses and hyacinths
press upward,
arching their
smooth
round
tips
through slits
of softening mulch.
 
It's a wild ride
through the sleepy villages
of Brooks, Monroe and Thorndike, Maine,
this morning,
with Rte. 139 erupting
in fissures of frost heaves.
 
I arrive in Unity
in anything but that state.
It's impossible to achieve
with so much friction
between things I should
and things I want to do.

Above all
there's a burgeoning question
about the unity
between sex and the sacred
that stern-faced nuns proscribed
in cryptic messages
from religion class, 1966.
 
What's a good girl to do, then,
when desire is a burning sword
she'd like
plunged into
her Catholic
resistance?
 
Ah...
fuck.
 
Tonight,
I'll make a slow burn
in the woodstove,
lay this man down
in my four-poster bed,
and make love to him
from this space
of liking and wanting.
 
Seems sacred enough to me.