Eros
He comes without sandals, tracking dust
Across the tidy rooms of souls,
Laying his wet cloak over every chair.
He is the tremor in the hand
That lifts a cup to an admired mouth,
The pause between:
‘Good evening’
and
‘Stay.’
He unbuttons the throat
Before he touches the collar.
He loosens the knees
Before he reaches the hips.
Do not call him pure. He is not.
He is wine spilled down the altar steps,
Lips stained during prayer, fingers lingering
Too long on the passing of bread.
It is Eros,
Smiling behind your teeth,
Borrowing your pulse,
Teaching your heart
A new way to beat.
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