If This Be Blasphemy by Ian Rolón

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If This Be Blasphemy

The first time we fucked, I saw God.

—and no, that is not a metaphor to explain how:

that night, I learned both Braille and Scripture

at the tabernacle of every bruise and bitemark

my lips drew like penance from between your thighs;

That night, I was not Baptized at the mouth of your river, 

nor born again, resurrected virginal and absolved of sin

like every faux-penitent atheist before a plane crash;

Madrigal, my God’s-honest truth is this: with just one word, 

you moved me. Brought faith to the faithless, you soothed me

like every great parable should; you renewed me:

slowly, at first; your gentle hands took consideration of:

each quiet space others had left ragged within me;

I came to you a shattered wreck, drowning; but you,

you reached inside and nailed fistfuls of wood and iron

around my heart like you still believed in saviors;

you are no saint, but in your soft ministrations, 

I found myself: that self still yet a shipwreck, yes; 

still lost, my hopes and dreams stretched thin like sails,

battered and worn from a lifetime spent seeking my

True North—not for myself, but in others; love,

before you? I was just wood better left for kindling,

simply a boy hammered into the shape of a man,

but after? Though I am yet still a warship, sinking; 

your name sieves from my lips like floodwater, and I 

I am a man drowning that still believes in anchors.

this is not a prayer, and I: no pious Franciscan,

no irreligious Pagan seeking benediction for:

how your nails etched the words “Holy Christ,” 

into the length of my spine; it did not take me 

years of study cloistered in your embrace to come 

to and understanding of the language of your teeth

—only practice. And patience; for in our holy parapet: 

I found God waiting both prodigal and ancient,

Her only Rule of Law to go forth and conquer

every inch of you between: the door, my desk,

the wall, the floor, the wall, my bed, the shower;

my teeth as plowshares; my tongue a blade;

my hands Conquistadors, each mad to claim

your temple as my holy ground. In your sighs, 

I knew Her Sole Commandment dealt more with:

drawing my name from your lips, eyes shut and 

heels digging, fingers clasped tight between mine;

our bodies a Testament written to reconcile two truths:

this—what felt a mutual Inquisition, but instead became

our unironic retelling of every Spanish occupation;

you: Cortez by way of Quixote, lionized by word of mouth;

and i: every brown skinned boy looking wide-eyed for God, 

only to find Virtù and redemption in all the wrong places; 

love, we do not ask one another for forgiveness

in this: our war against all common sense,

because the language we speak by candlelight

has no word for “impropriety,” only:

”Yes,” “More,” “Right there,” and “Oh God, please—fuck me.”

you are the Walls of Jericho, fortified, 

and I: Jerusalem by way of Scheherazade;

my words exist only to prolong the inevitable,

for I know that every church crumbles, and 

not even Lucifer could adulate perfection

without the want of something more; us

we want love with a knife in its hand,

we want love on a mountaintop, all truth,

its edge poised to smite our non-believers;

but I see you, and think hymnals; think Maria. 

Think Eve. Think Savior. Think of shoulders, and 

holding the weight of someone else like a cross

never meant to be borne in anguish; we fucked, love

and every Sunday thereafter, I have known Heaven as:

waking up to the smell of coffee, and her:

barefoot and hair still a mess, her outline dripping water 

as though it knows there is nowhere else it would rather be.

Ian Rolón

Ian Rolón is a multitude of things to a multitude of different people. Professionally, he is currently a first year PhD Candidate at PSU attempting to finish a doctorate in Curriculum and Instruction before his perpetual battle with insomnia kills him. Though a native to Puerto Rico: he now lives in State College, PA, and is slowly trying to adapt to the cold before it kills him, too. : afriendtosell.tumblr.com