We grew up, you and I, washed in the blood,

two hearts strangely warmed,

tuned to the tenets of four-part harmony,

and timed to the cadence of an American karma.

I walked the aisle, born again and again,

reincarnation with a black leather Bible.

Hurdy-gurdy hymns and clammy thighs on pews,

the unmystic soundtrack for my mindful loafers.

You hailed Catholic bodies out the school bus window,

midwestern lithe and plaid skirt lilting,

supernatural, if not wholly licit,

their flesh an irresistible recipe for your moveable feasts.

These nights I hear the old-time altar call,

halting steps, though saviors unseen and listless.

Hearts now warmed for accidental covenant,

your body the wholesome sacrament I seek.