Naked Prayers

It was good
the way you took me up
and fed me
when I was a dry cup in the desert;
a parched palate
for the roof of arid dreams.
It was good of you
to make a poem
of my soul's entrails
and spread me out
like a maze and prophecy
of us.
Then smear them over yourself
crooning a prayer
for our naked love
until we glistened, keening
in the raw meat of the sun.
Our tears
singing like funerals
carried on the burning wind.
Until a merciful ocean
poured down into the one throat
we offered up as ourselves.