Krishna wears purple lipstick to church
and nervously spins her thumbs.
The sirens lock themselves inside the throat of the organ, calling the goddess by name.
Memories stir like two bodies.
Wet lips whistle soaked sheets that
crescendo before the holy orgasm.
Incense burns and Krishna laughs,
a hymn tightens in the space between
Her thighs, her pride.
By God’s grace, she is still alive!
Humiliation cannot stay here, not even as a refugee.
Why would she need to justify?
A fish never explains it is native to the sea.
It is as natural as the sun’s kiss goodnight to the mountain top.