P.G. THE Third

	It has gotten to the point where she can only
get herself off in Church.  Purse in lap, hand slid
under skirt, face a projection of worshipful
introspection.  Rubbing, short hair coiled through
clenching fingers.  Rapid rubbing pressure, small
semi-circles urgent over swollen clit.

	GOD.  It is good.  Her labia, inner pink wet
kiss  on squeezing index and middle fingers.  She
feels her hand down there, working, climbing wet in
secret, panty elastic pressing her wrist, pastor's
voice in and out of hearing in a preaching  Chinese
 Fire Drill.


	Flowers follow God's bright sun, sharp nails
hurting dewdrop labia almost flinching, holding on to
the serene and humble half-smile.  Heart hammers,
nostrils flare.  She feels herself through her groin,
feels the pushing motion feels the pressure stroking,
slight tug of curling pubic hair pinned between
hurried fingers.

	Tiny swollen bud, warm wet cotton faint pray
whisper on wet lips.

	The sermon sits in her head, musical chairs
orchestral crescendo.  Beside her they reach for the
hymn books, waiting in the pew's wooden pockets. 
Her body blooms in God's love, she loves the Presence,
in her body burning out the skin nearing full bloom.
Bright colour flashes beginning behind the eyes
and to her left and right they rise and stand,
watching the old hymn books, ugly blue.

	Her smile slips as the old woman in the 
rustling-stiff dress looks down.

	So close… she clutches her purse, her fingers
damp and shaking, she jerks to unsteady legs.

	Her eyes narrow and the Spirit begins to
recede.	FUCK she thinks in glowing-red uppercase
letters, smoking, smell of sulphur.  The throbbing,
something lovely passed by so close.  She grinds her
teeth and mouths the empty words from the ugly blue book of hymns.

	She will attend Sunday evening service, she
decides, heart slowing in resignation.