His prayer palms pass over my flesh
Hands impaling my own to unmade beds with nails of stars
That shoot beyond the galaxy edge.
He, sinking into my skin
Repents his sin by the beads at the nape of my neck, his rosary.
His whispered worship on my lips, we battled in tongues
Whilst his fingers struck me dumb with new meaning from forgotten text.
What would Mary think as we
Tethered on the brink of this realm and the next?
Our too wrong flesh transformed to rightly fire that burnt well into the night.
Whilst our souls, once ash, leaked through the sheets, in threads of silver light.
Original piece for World Poetry Day 2016.