distillette

    we are buried in the bark ferments of forest stills
where lynching`s hang like gala apples from trees;
your fingers fondle my sugars ~ swap gossip weep
like molasses...
I can smell your moonshine pricked
on the pores of your liver`d tongue,
sweet cattle feed
and you tell me I'm worth it
lying athe~esq on a backwoods pew, my body the Eagle
swerves through the church`s Christian
but I'm not pure without my communal wafer ~
sins feel un~washed, un~erased
like priests who fail to wash their hands
after a good damning.