Retrospect

Blood on the Altar

This is a place of worship,
and you ask for it
polluted.

You bring my purity as libation,
suckle at the wetness
on the altar,
plunging your hands in the viscera
of my flesh so I am reduced
to fat and warmth – seized,
and touched
the way I like it:
velvet, and sand spilling.

So you lay me out
to be eaten on the slab, and drink
from the innocence,
drawn to the pulse
and the throbbing pain. My belly
the hearth
is hot for you.

While you cut the shame
from my body,
and the whiteness runs down the stone
in slow trickles,
I close my eyes
and wonder if lambs take as much
pleasure in sacrifice
as I do.

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