Jen Yáñez-Alaniz
MY BODY AT THE TABLE
I walk under the stream of hot water, a smudging of skin.
The bloom blooms hot across my chest, I bite down on the sweet taste of fire.
Palms clutch in pleading supplication.
The stream leaves crimson streaks down my stomach, silken sashes ribboning
down my legs, soothing across the scars on my knees; ancient burial grounds
of unanswered prayers.
I lay across the floor; limbs limp and splayed; tender skin a soft linen.
A blossom red rose arches from the center of my body.
Each lover at the tips of my fingers — I breathe, breasts rise toward God.
I rest in the charity of my sin; shallow breaths of ache; relief from the pain.
Pink pills in a cup, sweet contrition, sweet contrition.
My lovers, they reach, each takes from the flesh.
My body at the table.