Looking back, I almost left you sleeping,
then I saw in you the dimmest mirror
of the bully messiah that broke my childhood.
A thin correlation at best, your body transformed
in my mouth, the guilt engine of confession,
the oppression and swell of the organ, your organ
in me, then laid out silent and soft on your belly.
So I held you like a hymnal, mouthing the words,
empty of worship, but full of belief that you could
be some surrogate savior, the un-holy-ghost in me.
We had come together and pulled apart, making
harmless sparks. No purifying fire in the dark.
Just your breathing body beneath nothing and me
on my knees, swollen in the risky bliss of this revival.
About the Author: Adam Hayden holds an MFA from the University of Michigan. His most recent work can be found or is forthcoming in Pleiades, The New Orleans Review, Incessant Pipe, and Juked.