In a bordello in Burgundy, I finally find god.

Mary Magdalene, would you believe, painted

by some dead French painter in some

dead French dialect. Forgiveness won’t cut

it tonight so I pray for happiness instead—

that sweet-licked fruit which makes rivers

part and delivers me from the evil I so

desperately seek. I saw an old, faded poster

of Bardot in an unhip Parisienne street.

Wept for over an hour, soul knelt in front

of it, palms folded like an expectant child,

lips pursed in some ancient prayer. Now you

can draw blood or you can draw wine,

truth is, in the thick of things, they both

taste pretty much the same. I taste song

in the air, just as well, songs of desire

and faith and learning to spell departure

in a few different ways. In the portrait, Mary

feels alive—bereft of sanctity, sans Jesus,

freed from the weight of a gnawing memoir.

The song prospers again, filling my throat

with the truth that no loneliness is the same

as my loneliness. Kiss me with wine.

Repeat desire as an incantation. Affirm

faith at the altar of a haunting gouache.

You mouth your prayers and step into

the starriness of a Van Gogh night.
The title is from ‘Hallelujah’, written by Leonard Cohen