A monk with no god
She stares into my eyes whenever she wants to pray.
She touches my skin, kisses my lips,
as if flesh were scripture, am I her prayer?
She preaches, whispers sermons:
I’m God; you are my God.
We are fragments of a greater whole,
not heaven overhead or skies above,
but burning here on earth, rooted in this soil.
She sleeps with a different man each night,
seeking threads in other bodies’ light.
Through shadows she wanders,
chasing dots, a grasp, a spark
a flame burning in her eyes.
Alone, she anoints herself
with everything she was seeking from a god,
Maybe a temple,
trembling with the weight of life.
To a different lord, she prays every night,
kneeling to passing men
as if each were divine.
she knows herself,
a monk with no god.
Copyright ©
Rez Ama | Year Posted 2025
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