An Arm-less Savior

We, rows of children with numb tongues,
Mumble prayers in jest
To an arm-less savior above
[Who hosts but has no guest]
With our words and incantations
We find our breasts unfilled
So faith divined an invention
Of man’s desire to kneel

And those bound up, beneath the boot,
Who suffer Sodom’s ill
Find the unconcerned in turn may burn
But not before they kill
The least, the meek, the long forgotten
By the prosperous pews
Who cleaved the arms of a savior
Whose words they never knew

Mother’s Milk

I dream to draw you to my breast
To reside in my bossom, my face full of hair
Brushing aside a tide of empty compliments
Where the hiding is easy, severed from
the mire of temporal tethers
enjambed in early age

Might I be able to nurture and nourish
To provide calm with my barren breast
Aesthetically pleasing, I guess;
still superfluous breast
I could caress and hold for the better part
of an afternoon
Should my breast prove warm

I dream, as I’m suckled, to brush
Almond skin, kiss almond eyes, seat weary legs
To absorb all the neithers held in these breaths
Exed and hailed and memories prior
Oh, but the lies; dirty, filthy lies
Turns a breast cold and I
wake unembraced.