At what unexpected moment
does decency snarl ENOUGH:
your childhood is now sucked dry.
Censor what displeases you.
Suppress all reference, no
matter how oblique, benign.
Embrace the disfigured angels,
reel down the receiving line
like a Jesuit among the Iroquois.
Applaud each falling blow,
to reign if chosen, to hush
where mercy diverts a thump
from fracture to glance.
If, having gambled your redemption
on one repulsive act,
a sworn surrender fails,
then hum some harmless anthem of
imaginary war resulting in uneasy peace.
Her gaze is passive
with practiced and parental
disappointment, the ink
long faded on the Devil’s pact.
She is beautiful, is she not?
The more so for plucking
both saint and thief,
hand in withered hand
from the white, domestic streets,
Field of Martyrs in
Baedecker’s Index, but roundabout
for papal mugshots destined
for Nippon, an Opus Dei badge,
a knee-trembler in Avignon.
Forgive me, Lady, the sin
of my suspicion,
Your calling on me by way of
accident and not design.
I distrust the pearly surface,
the scummed enamel
offered for my kiss.