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The Heretic
by John L’Heureux

Having exhausted
snow flakes and the dogwood petals
I turn to your tongue

drawn deep into my mouth
with all my body needling, curling
into yours. And you

not knowing, wondering
at my mouth. Love is vulgar business.
But so is living, dying.

Even the Crucifixion
was flesh; a tongue nailed to the wood
and love flapping

in the wind like a voice
never wholly heard. You are a heretic.
Love begins with bodies.