Tumbling

A single soft snap
and you own temptation:
bloody sheen of apple blush
contrasting vividly against your skin.
Looks like you've been caught red-in-your-handed,
but nobody sees it, sees beyond the fruit,
to the tar-weighted soul.

You think it through
   -I know you do, don't scoff.
Before the taste caressed your tongue,
   you imagined it.
Every agonizingly pleasurable second:
    the crunch of taut skin;
    the sweet sin savor of juice
      bleeding from the tender white flesh.

Redemption. Grace. Just words?
   You're so good at imagining, imagine this:
Every agonizingly loving second:
    the crunch of bone on nail;
    the sour stench and sting of wine;
    the blood flowing, reddening the tender, pale flesh.
A savior's pain for a second's sin.

This is not judgment,
    no minute guilt-trip to the other side of the world.
You see, what you imagined?
    I did too.

And when I lamented, cried also, "Eloi, eloi, lama sabacthani,"
    He said,
        "I haven't."