In Our Nation's Capitol by Celeste Gainey

by Leslie Anne Mcilroy

You motion for me to come sit on your lap.
You carry me to the bedroom.

Undress me. Lay me down
on crisp hotel sheets––

a soft quilt for mothering
in a place where there is no mothering

––only monuments to neglect & regret
where we tread the grassy mall

the length & breadth of
Silence = Death.

No soft breast to suck
as I do yours now:

you are above me pressing
/grinding down on my cunt.

You pull your tit away
turn me over/

lift my buttocks
spread my cheeks.

Then your warm spit
/your tongue rimming me.

I’m on my knees now
rocking hard to your rhythm.

This feels holy. Like church.
Like the mother-fucking/big-ass

National Cathedral in the dead of night:
black-mass candles blazing,

dead saints watching, mute
& unblinking, from their pedestals;

hollowed eyes of marble politicians
peeping through the stained glass.

You the butch high priestess of too much sorrow
/me the submissive penitent

longing to feel your pain––take it.
Pull it deep inside.

We’re not supposed to be here
/doggie-style in our nation’s capitol,

the quilt tending away now,
like undulating bodies in retreat––

your aching fist
an anchor at the bottom of me.


Celeste Gainey’s full-length poetry collection, the gaffer, is scheduled for publication in early 2015 by Arktoi Books, an imprint of Red Hen Press. Her chapbook, In the land of speculation & seismography (Seven Kitchens Press, 2011) was runner-up for the 2010 Robin Becker Prize. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in BLOOM, 5AM, and Columbia Poetry Review. She holds a BFA from New York University and received her MFA from Carlow University.