Pulpit
The body and the blood
are of those who inched on their bellies
underneath barbed wire
and never lived to be born again.
Motherlands shackled at the feet of their Fathers.
Who mourns at their whitewashed bones?
Bleached by the desert Son,
Marked with unnamed crosses, they scream the names of Holy Ghosts.
In the silence, my thighs part like the Red Sea
my borders unguarded,
she drinks me
like wine at the last supper.
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