Tuesday, April 2, 2013

A Staunch Defender Of The Church's Values

I did touch him.

You have to understand that he was some sort of vision to me,
a sudden, shining gift of entrancing freshness and beauty.

Perfect pure voice; lit smile; skin like soap.
When he came near I could get the very smell of him.
And I knew delicious appetite for the first time: a trembling hunger
to be held, to hold, to know flesh beyond my cloistered room.

'Come here, move a little closer. Nothing to be afraid of.
Let me...' I felt beauty of skin distorting through me,
all the lovely hungry forbidden touches rubbing softly.
And for all that I would cry out my urgent release
and held him, shaking, to me, I gritted my teeth
and grunted only, humped into shadows, secret.
He was like a stunned flower, limp against my body, sweet.
But I refused witness to the fear and shame spreading into his future.

Eyes glazed, ordained, I let it happen: calculating; surrendering
to the long years of denial; dividing myself to maintain myself
and letting Evil be my refuge and my salve: 'Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned.' (The right hand shall not know the left.)

But I did choose, and my heart knows, and he was but the first of many.
Twisted into my cassock he was my light, my downfall, my need.

I did touch him.

14 March 2013

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