The Biggest Sin

THE BIGGEST SIN

She goes to Church every Sunday
while weeknights are
her tongue
down any man’s throat.

She falls for pretty faces
and some not so
while their eyes consume her eyes
as she waits for their declaration of devotion
while denying she’s the muck
on a man’s shoe.

What do you want?

A simple question. A simple question? She cannot answer.

The question shaking like a split avocado during a windstorm.

She wants, she wants, she wants
so much to be loved, but
she won’t even say.

Instead
it’s the same complaints about
– this                           man lying about how she begs to be fucked
– that                         man talking like she’s a stupid little kindergartener 
– or the other             man scolding her for showing up late

Could we call them, “men”?

There is always another woman:
She, always a back-up girl
like a feeding tube
on comatose bodies.

There’s no risk to believe

I CAN DO BETTER.

What do you want?

A simple question. A simple question? She cannot answer.

The question shaking like a split avocado during a windstorm.

I don’t know
is the best she can do.

There are great possibilities
in the silence of her body
waiting to be filled
with water for lilies.

Instead
she seeks absolution on Sundays
when collared men and altar boys are
but simple excuses to cloak the biggest sin
– turning a blind eye to oneself.