Of Hymns and Hormones

It's Sunday morning, humid.
My lacy dress itches and glues my hair
to the back of my neck.
I mumble our somber hymns
but my thoughts follow my eyes
as they seek you out like a temptation
three pews ahead.

Your suit dips into the small of your back,
the edge hugging your hips.
Your hair is messy,
the color of milk chocolate—
too long according to some
but it's becoming of you.

My belly tingles and as
the adults towering over us
sing about redemption and
God being a potter, my idle fingers
find my thighs, pressing the soft flesh
beneath my dress.
They slide higher, into the crevice
they're not supposed to explore
and a blend of fear and exhilaration
surges through me.

You shift your weight
from one foot to the other
and I clench my teeth, try to
calm my breathing. But it's no use.
Some demon has possessed me.
I'm no longer in a crowded
and noisy sanctuary,
but a green garden of Eden
accompanied by my mind's image
of what you look like underneath
that suit. I'm taking a bite out of
an apple and then handing it to you.

"What are you doing?" The voice
rips me out of Eden, only to be thrown back
into the hellish heat of the sanctuary
where your back is turned
and my mother's disapproving glare
shrinks me to two feet.
I don't answer.

As the last hymn ends and we
take our seats upon the pews,
I remember that today is potluck
and my mother has brought apples.
I think later I'll offer to share one with you.