Season IV . . . The call is coming from inside the house
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We make out in the stairwell of the old Baptist church: gilt steeple above us, laughter hidden in our lips and my hands in your hair. I know there are angels singing somewhere so I hope they're singing for us and our blood and all the places where our thighs touch, or where our shivering bodies melt into shared heat, where our breath sings ghosts to the cold cold air. The distant choir is hymning an old story of how Jesus looked impending fight in the eyes and refused to flee, and like that our mouths are another act of resistance, stronger than bruised ribs, phone calls, locked doors, every threat of disrepair. Our singing hearts together make a beautiful prayer. Two Boys, Keaton St. James
(Briar) Do you remember Cassie at all? (Wesley) I don't know why you're talking to me right now.
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