Last night, writhing in summer heat, I dreamt of Christ,

in a heaven of cement, an industrial paradise—              

multi-storey car park, and let me tell you, he was just my type,

all long hair and boyish girlishness- stuck in inbetweens.


I smoke a cigarette and tell him I never really knew my dad either,

Jesus rolls like a devout addict, and he only smokes pure

joints, forming smoke rings with lips like blushing pilgrims,

says he subscribed to my onlyfans, that my body is holy.


We ate pomegranates and figs in the dark, sat on hot tarmac,                                     

said he’d gone off apples— something about the taste of sin,

juice drips lazily down chin, sticky traveller, resting on scars,

ribcage. Horizontal lines, as if to underline importance.


He kissed me, the sweetness, the hunger and holy lust,

ripe lips of young man, tongue righteous against mine,

the friction of barely there facial hair, scratching at skin,

and his bloodied knuckles against my boyish breasts.