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anno Domini Holy Dance






anno Domini Holy Dance

 

Head tucked in the cross of my legs, my fingers needle in and out, entangled in his thick black hair. Emerge pale and thin, wearing a coat of sheen. An Israelite ever wandering in wilderness; he is closer to me here than anywhere else.
 

Magnetized, he snakes between my existence; arm tucked about my waist, thumbs knead tense muscles, fingers run over my knee. He grabs tight to my hand, raising his arm as shadow to my own. His praise, echoes. My hair encloses his face now, skims his shoulders. He wears it like a wig.

I will become even more undignified than this,

and I will be humiliated in my own eyes.

 

A mannequin of polite example; rooted, I do not turn to notice if the parishioners behind us watch our dance. The weight of my palm upon his leg anchors him but for a moment. He jingles coins in windmill hands.

Accept this sacrifice,

oh, gracious God.

 

 

MD Marcus

  

MD Marcus is a freelance writer and poet who loves keys, the color blue, and a good nude illusion. Her work has appeared on Salon as well as in Another Way Round, The DrabbleEunoia ReviewRat’s Ass ReviewCommunicators League, “Motherhood May Cause Drowsiness,” among others. Please read everything she writes and visit her on Instagram or at mdmarcus.com

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