The Wordle of the day is adage, I struggle
with anything that tries to make faith
out of thin language. Who am I learning to
pray to if not the thick root of god’s tongue?
At the spa, I touch men under quilts of water;
we are so close that I can see their breath.
Every slight stroke from my fingers to his
thighs is met with a glance towards the door
or a wall; an exit, but for who? The rules
have been stated very
plainly; no public
displays of affection, we do not touch
in view of the lifeguards. We lap the pools
of men baiting anyone to join in the cloak
covered steam room. I, too, think of this as praying,
choosing the faith in the thickness of the fog,
what will cover us like the hands of god
if we let it. Lust is a faith of its own and all
the men here are falling victim to its smite.
I am not devoid of this. I cup the small dent
in a boy’s back and we get so close
to each other that we almost kiss.