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Exalt/Holy Privilege
by Becca Titus

Our sounds are all x's and s's.
Innate
in-ar-tic-u-lations.
Vowels
from the gut.

Our alcove reeks
of raw honey and meat
so the breeze gorges itself.
An unseen belly swells, turns the light pink
Our blood is buzzed,
lit and trembling.

Consider: if god goes
where he wants,
then who knows
where he is not?

Not in me.
But slipping between,
peering past the green,
are we exhibits of salt?
Maybe he is just blustering,
jealous in the tall grass.

We are

        past imminence
        post eminent
        pre infinite

Not god’s business at all

 

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