I can’t confess

to being Catholic, but they’re onto something

with those alabastine figures of theirs, enthralled

within saintly washes of light,

staggering through the muted stainglass and oh--

each reverend hair on their molten faces

splayed out in sunlit fiery points, red-gold

candelabra combed out in gilt braids back from

their virginal mistresses’ faces,

softshadow cheekbones and

that dead ancient ashen pulsing terra cotta feeling

--you know it too--

aching out from lips and eyes swollen

with some ascendant pride,

their supple throats poised

at godly angles,

and the taste of white water in my mouth

for want of that holiness

--you know it too--

The crucifix embraced in lover shadows--

these churches stony and warm,

like careless sheets rumpled humbly,

still warm just after those young bodies have

crept away into robes, lightheaded with the

scent of coffee and someone else’s

breath lingering between their glistening teeth

that flush pale shoulders from behind

lips still red from violence.

And those haloes slung white as orchids behind devout hands--

those Catholics are onto something.