It is Thursday.
I will be pagan.
Thin white shirt covers
my always naked body.
Stand in front of my mirror
and for a moment only watch
the momentary rustle in the breeze
the lifting fabric over breasts
as I
exhale.
I feel earth mother today.
Hands slipping down my ribs
to encircle waist
rising to caress a breast
carrying the shirt with them
so that a long curving expanse is revealed
to the intense gaze
hands in worship.
Swaying to no music
rhythm in the flexing of thighs
rising to support a body
on tiptoe
a leg extending
up
and up
to touch Her face
a dance of praise.
Seasweet scented waters
smoothed across the altar
of my body
incense without fire.
The burning is all inside me
in the quickening of a heart
in the tensing of muscles everywhere
in the blinding of suddenly closed eyes
in the shuddering.
And I am singing
Gloria
as I fall.