Sunday Morning
by Camille T. Dungy
Desire swung like that: like her
legs in procession, like perfume
from a censer on its linked chain.
Heavy as smoke in the hold’s light,
desire. A church, a cathedral, the body
in that robe. The robe sash swinging.
The progress through the sinning body
to this sacred spot. A man kneeling.
A man with head bent. A man lifting
his prayer to a woman. Desire. Desire. Desire.
Grant us grace.
Tracy Butts, Ph.D.