No Prayer For That

Lust is a padded chapel
with slippery floors
and the light doesn’t reach the back corner

and the ghosts are always in my way.

It’s so crowded
I just want to sit

and pray for someone
to hold my hand
while I empty out
all the words
that sound like repression
or constriction.

You might be a door,
you might be the mother of
the stars.
I might want to knock.
I might want to come in and take
my clothes off.
It could be quick.

It could be enough.
We could track our
muddy footprints up the aisle.
It could be sensual and unafraid.
There is no prayer for that.

Nasturtium

I unwrap
soft seeds
from the tender center
of shriveled flowers,
their color more intense when dying,
chili orange and lemon yellow
sticky petals suction their bodies
around the seeds,
my hand,
their lover,
I choose plump,
I choose large,
I choose
the willing snap
from limb to palm.

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jennifer lothrigel is a poet and artist in the San Francisco Bay area.  She is the author of the chapbook Pneuma (Liquid Light Press, 2018). Her work has also been published recently in Arcturus,  Yes Poetry, Dash Literary Journal, Night Music Journal, and Riggwelter Press, amongst others.