The unchurched

Because I was among the unchurched
I wore him down until—
And invoking the primitive light
In my arms she wants me,
She warns me,
She warm and smooth
And again was reminded by the
Man on the radio that
Shame and guilt are structurally different things
If I have one, and he has the other
I was not among the seekers,
Either, and I wore myself like—
That thing you do with your eyes,
Habitually, I think
Like anything else these days, habitual
However those uses combined with
The droning, her droning
That comes from—
That cop’s from—
I said software again for only the second
Time, and like any other name
Like the thrust of the term:
With (my God!) my God.

Ash Wednesday

So it’s a theory of the frame
Absenting the body except in the frame
The prerequisite for the frame
Decorating the nude in the frame
There are some chaste words we all profane
But that’s a bad idea; that’s a cruel impulse
I’m good now, nice and nice and good, reminded
Of every other time I was reminded of
Every other time I was confused for hunger
And confused for confusion
You need only the slightest push back
Apparently the hands which proscribe—
I get off on the invitation
Go on about my biological con
This sacred drama playing out in this
Delineated space—this frame
This perfect uninformed guess for size
I can’t believe tonight I’ve been given up
For a normal Wednesday
I wonder what allows for languor
What allows for the most damning thing
I could tell you right now

___________________

Émilie Lafleur is a writer living in Montréal.