Transubstantiate, Redux or, Sublimating Lucy Whilst At Church

How is it I have kissed seven different men named Michael?
One the first to kiss my tight shut mouth,
another the first to touch my naked breasts,
and another again the first to show me that there can be power
in getting down
on my knees,
and yet a different Michael to press my body
hard in the night,
which changed everything.

They keep finding me,
these men called Who is Like God—
finding my mouth and body,
and I am become sure
that the name itself does not matter.
The name is only a harbinger,

is only the closest articulation
of the violent love I feel at prayer.

If I could, I would lift up in flight from my life,
and leave that angel behind with his sword
to fight for me—

I want a named, holy thing
to fuck my brains out,
to turn my need
to be filled up
and spread out
and hungry
into some kind of Grace.

I want to cuss my lover’s name in ecstasy
and have it be the prayer I always hoped it was:
Fuck. Michael. Alleluia
Harder. God. Amen.

I want to have sex in a church and feel undivided—

communion is intercourse, after all,
the taking of a man’s body and blood into mine—

to feel undivided when I wrap my legs
around some body I do not love
just because he’s a big boy,

and that is the only way
a man ever seems in charge
in this life.

It is the same want.
It is the prayer I cannot pray alone.