I never danced with Jesus,
But Michael pulled me to him,
And I curved into his back, twenty
Years of electrified instinct.
The butterscotch texture
Of his voice stole my senses,
And the slink of his hip under my hand
Was my one true sacrament.
He was chlorophyll to a teenage stalk
Of a girl, inspiration as sustenance.
He wasn’t supposed to be mortal.
That wasn’t part of the agreement when
I stood before his pedestal, willfully blind.
His life was worth more to me than my own,
And that November he gave it away.
There is nothing fair about faith.