Transubstantiation
Queer love and the eye of God
God’s eye has grown promiscuous.
Previous omniscience has become:
A broken marble.
Exhaustive effort to pay attention.
A fortress built by malesness
To protect an ugly sanctity.
My adoration for her is an escape.
She says: men have girlfriends because they want to own something.
I say: I’m secure because I know you don’t want this relationship.
No, she says, you’re secure because you know I want you.
What was that word?
The one where wine turns into blood, and the cracker is flesh?
I can never remember,
Like it refuses to stick
In my vocabulary.
Like it isn’t for me.
I am always watching myself:
I can not see the woman I am
Without using the eyes of a man.
He won’t stop staring and
I know what he wants to see.
I know which parts of me
Aren’t it.
In the past the man who was looking
Was not just in my bed; he was in my head.
In the present
My heart is softly and hesitantly turned to her.
At the beginning we spent weeks acting like saints in our sapphic bed,
Touching one another without seeking out pleasure.
Roving hands, getting familiar.
She joked about how straight men’s faces change
When they realize we’ve eaten pussy before, too.
They look foolish, like
They’ve bitten a lemon.
A pause –
And then,
They imagine the act.
We are watched then and always and we are never alone.
The eyes of men’s inner worlds can't be gouged.
This morning she said,
“God is seeing us without permission,”
And I responded with my fool’s tongue,
“Not on my watch.”
How do I transform this exhibitionism into a pleasurable fact?
My form would be
Faulted Goddess.
Add me to the tarot deck:
My flint rock voice will cause trouble
For any steely bastards.
I signal protection:
I will kill all our betrayers.
Those who watch us
Will watch us in silent worship.