Lent

Into the wilderness, she disappeared 
Forty days and forty nights.
Her body emaciated, her hair withering.
Should she subject herself to such cruel doings?

But this is the phase to let go of original sin.
The sin that causes the winter, the desecration that lets children in. 
Withering bushes, bare branches, fallen leaves.
The shrubs and trees are also shedding.
rotten seed, rotten fruit.
The air - abhorrent and dense. It’s the stench - the stench of death. 

Yet, surrounded by all this decay in the wilderness she must remain,
No friends, no acquaintances, and no next of kin. 
Her bones poking outside of her weakening skin 
A skeleton, beseeching to be freed of the body its in. 
But it’s a rite of passage, the only way to let go of sin 
A rite of passage, the only way to let the ancestors in. 

On the forty-first day, she’ll rise and re-enter society 
Sin-free, now, a true goddess indeed. 
Serenity flows from her lips, her aura has been repealed. 
I see the rite of passage cleanse her and now-
I revel in orgasmic elation, 
emaciated, pining alone with dying trees 
waiting for death -to also, cleanse me.