The Battle and Blessings of a Devoted Nun

small white buckets of velvet sit
high on their earthly stilts,
proud of their purpose,
whatever that may be.

along the bedside of a pumped up priest,
chanting relentlessly on worn out beads
and bleating to a God that hasn’t listened
since that night in 1992.

I chant, too. On nights like these.
though I know the difference between
a steel crucifix and the holy ghost.
I chant for you, Wife,
so that the aches I give you may leave your bones.

both of us coil in life, like
snakes, split-tongued and tempered.
when you sleep I hear your dull rattle-
humming and hissing.

I adore your ridges, your stuck claws in the ground.
I am able to lick each nail clean from the socket,
gently ripping you from your familiarity.

Wife, may you buckle beneath my loyalty,
overcome by love and love and love.
For you have grown knowing nothing else
but to scratch and bite.

I am no causality.
and if you bite again, well, I love to bleed.

lying still, save the rise and fall of your stomach,
I keep my eyes fixed on your collarbone.
I’ve always loved the dark rings on your skin,
the way your chest juts towards the sky.

chanting here I speak now in low whispers,
my throat cracking with elongated aaaas.
funny now, God must have left the sheets,
as I find myself spilling this soliloquy to you.

I’m worried that you’re awake,
listening to this raw moment of truth.
then again, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before
drowned in whiskey and smudged in mascara.

how content I am to exchange nothing
but silence and mutual dreams.
like a nun, devoted to said steel,
I bend here on my knees, devoted
to the god between your legs.

come morning when the yellow hood
has yawned and collapsed over buildings,
I will taste your mewling mouth and
delve into our third sacrament.

for now, we sleep beside those small white buckets
of velvet that sit high on their earthly stilts.
I am proud of your purpose,
whatever that may be.

the air has cooled.
I hold you here,
still chanting through my heart,
still holding yours.


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