For I Have Sinned

I met a man beneath an island;
a table within a circular booth,
where eyes can avoid committing
and throw hurried glances at faces,
figures in peripheral vision.

Grey Goose, Vermouth, Tanqueray—
glowed down from hierarchal shelving,
contributing to the conversation
and fluid movements of myself
and the immersed sinners around us.

Later I would learn he was predominately water;
with splashes of ethanol,
my vodka sacrament.
That night his wet eyes drank my
blasphemes in like prose on a page.

As one, we visited confession
beneath cotton sheets that concealed our nakedness.
His body swelled, offering forgiveness
after each misdeed I whispered across thread.
Our skin tangled as we swam together
in spiritual devotion.

He became my brimming font;
Dipping myself into him nightly,
his mouth on my body washed away
every blemish. He brought me to the surface
over and over, writhing with penance,
creating me new.