Sermon for the Saved

SERMON FOR THE SAVED

Burning in my throat after the fourth

a sacrament I never meant to take.

I’m running out of cigarettes,

a sinner’s rosary dwindling, ash by ash.

Buried among strangers, I turn toward the glass

peering out like a prophet without a prayer,

Their faces wear new gospels,

but none read like you.

I pray the tar fills me when I head north,

a martyr of brunette mirages and dim show lights.

But this city, humid and cursed, still keeps your breath.

There was no altar, no veil, no white rose death.

No hymns. No holy ending.

Just silence and a ghost who walks my block.

She made herself a chapel in your chest.

She is your communion, your feast.

You kneel for her.

She offers you the wafer,

and you devour it like salvation.

Your mouth, once baptized in my sin,

is now rinsed clean by her sanctified touch.

With me, you were unholy.

With her, you’re absolved

She is the priest who forgives what I stirred.

You are chained.

You are fed.

You crave her like Sunday wine.

My mystery was never enough

your gluttony is divine.

So I keep the fire burning in my lungs,

my incense for the altar of grief.

Even if it tastes like rust,

at least it’s faithful.

In the end, even God turned away.

This burn is my worship.

The lingering smoke, my psalm.

My lips taste of blood and holy regret

A sheep’s throat slit beneath the stars.

I smoked my last six.

The sermon’s done.