venus in cancer

i.

bacchic worship begins on your knees.

ritual dictates days in ambrosial haze;

this could feel like god if you let it

sink into your skin

cradle your face

look at you, wondrous thing.

they call you good and you could almost believe it.

do you call it god if obedience comes so easily? is it obedience when no alternative exists?

soft traces of your body in rest and desperate grips in heat could convince you;

soft confessions of the self in bedroom secrecy almost do.

ii.

holiness ends with the hands.

exaltation martyrs you right there and then;

this feels just as radiant as you

admire the sun-glazed eyes

watch as they widen in panic

believing you're as good as they call you.

almost.

could you stare into the face of god long enough for it to be love? how long can love last

before you turn away?

they kiss you goodbye like it's the most natural thing in the world.

you keep staring until they disappear.