“poet is priest is pervert”

We go to the cloister’s windows and
watch the nuns undressing. Some

smoke cigarettes, others eat
mandarins. All of them have fingers

stained blue with iodine, anything
to prove that they haven’t been

touching themselves. Show me a nun
who will show what lays between

her thighs and I’ll show you a new
world order. But that’s not change.

The ex-communicated know that priests
in love with teenage anarchy are still

oppressors. The theology student with a
PhD is still making shit up. There is

no overture to a revolution. There is no
revolution. Systems are systems,

interchangeable, stretching out before
us, sweet with hope. But that’s not what

offends. It’s when the girl, turning around,
sees our breath staining the window

from which we watch. As if your
fingerprints, pressing against the glass,

are radical acts. As if my heart, pounding
on the pane, is some sort of freedom.