It is Thursday. I will be pagan. Thin white shirt covers my always naked body. Stand in front of my mirror and for a moment only watch the momentary rustle in the breeze the lifting fabric over breasts as I exhale. I feel earth mother today. Hands slipping down my ribs to encircle waist rising to caress a breast carrying the shirt with them so that a long curving expanse is revealed to the intense gaze hands in worship. Swaying to no music rhythm in the flexing of thighs rising to support a body on tiptoe a leg extending up and up to touch Her face a dance of praise. Seasweet scented waters smoothed across the altar of my body incense without fire. The burning is all inside me in the quickening of a heart in the tensing of muscles everywhere in the blinding of suddenly closed eyes in the shuddering. And I am singing Gloria as I fall. ***** M.A. Mohanraj November 25, 1993Click here to read more poems.