We are half a mile out of town
and I am on you like
a newborn christened Catholic,
as we wait for the light to take everything we are
on this god-given rapture night

“Will we meet this ‘maker,’ you think?”
you say
all a joke, all burning-good fun,
“Or will we burn up together, here in this hell of a hell?”
you add
I laugh like the hyena I am
and that gassy night air corrodes into the rapture’s fire
–our fire–
the only beacon we’re breathing in
and our night high – all absent of stars and gods and demons –
burns up,
burns out,
and the night ends,
as you burn,
my rapturous queen