Two nuns there were, in a stained-glass house,
One prayed, one a non-believer.
Candles with a crippled drip, burning the hours
As they knelt holding the Jesus beads,
Being touched by religious men with the dry tick flesh.
Holy orders from the raggy-shawled Joes,
Creeping out of caves in a cellar, drunk on
Sacramental wine. Their shadows, something else.
Dead hands looking for a virgin,
Peddling their bony frames to a couch.
Black frocks plummet to a dark address;
Lecher’s kiss. Holy water, make a nun retch.
The sin. The sin. A vice tin-white,
Like arsenic to a body. Sound of poison in a church.
Squint an eye in a sermon, bronzed lies;
Nuns grow quick with a seed, O embryo,
Even in a deep sleep, you make the sign of the cross.
Blood blooms clean in a clinic, though;
They are no more your mother, God is.
Mouths closed for a while, welded like plums.
Copyright © 09/10/18 lance sheridan®