Finally, it’s been three months since
He and I were strangers with bad blood,
breathless in bed,
discussing the acts of giving and
receiving as indulgences,
mulling over our motivations and
the contraindications for
We bartered our lives’ proverbs.
He called me “Boomerang” —
like a red cell in crisis —
for tending to bend myself,
for twisting before giving myself
Like a red cell in crisis,
obtuse and pledging overextension
as a form of deliverance,
a promise for redemption.
He says he thinks that’s why I chose
I’ve never known magnanimity to be so
But in admiration of the red pint I’ve filled,
I wonder which one of us
has never feigned
It’s purely communion, like
any other: a provision of flesh
for crackers and juice.
Our tithes atone —
He and I, the beneficiaries and
patron saints of a blood
But thankfully, it’s been three months since
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