It is Thursday.
I will be pagan.

Thin white shirt covers
my always naked body.

Stand in front of my mirror
and for a moment only watch
the momentary rustle in the breeze
the lifting fabric over breasts
as I

I feel earth mother today.

Hands slipping down my ribs
to encircle waist
rising to caress a breast
carrying the shirt with them
so that a long curving expanse is revealed
to the intense gaze

hands in worship.

Swaying to no music
rhythm in the flexing of thighs
rising to support a body
on tiptoe
a leg extending
and up
to touch Her face

a dance of praise.

Seasweet scented waters
smoothed across the altar
of my body

incense without fire.

The burning is all inside me
in the quickening of a heart
in the tensing of muscles everywhere
in the blinding of suddenly closed eyes
in the shuddering.

And I am singing


as I fall.

M.A. Mohanraj
November 25, 1993