Blue |
| by Nicholas Theisen |
She sold seashells by the seashore
while
seven sheiks' sheep
slept
in seven sleak sheets
on the shifty sands of
beaches, apartments,
and holy friar tenement housing.
But let's not mince words.
Her orant figure stood there
poised, ready
to take on the moaning wonders
of the cathedral sea.
the towering spires of
dihydrogen oxide
undulated
and rose from the salty earth,
sometimes Gothic,
sometimes Baroque,
and others as just
a shining obelisk of blue.
Like a Second Eve,
she was, as of yet,
alone.
But unlike Mary,
she could not conceive
merely
by hoping for immaculate
wonder.
Sometimes monks are useful,
and maybe,
just maybe,
one fractured abbot
would be willing to visit
her by that sacred liquid transcept.
She needed someone
almost as much as that man,
naked of holy orders,
needed to roll away
the granite sarcophagus
of her beauty, danger, and hope.
His tender satin touch,
not simply lustful as souls
of jealous imposition
would care to think,
rained down on her face
letting her know, distinctly,
that comfort and giggles can
be found
in cool, clear capsules,
not just
in those heated reposes
with leg and arm blankets.
The southern portals of faces,
quivering in anticipation,
can come to a pinnacle
with more than prurient desires
for bedroom panting.
Excommunication
may come in spite of
Hail Mary howls for
compassion and understanding.
But papal dissatisfaction
for an abbot and his unsanctioned
happiness
matters little
while swimming
in the quiet Eucharist
of a man and woman, sand
and cobalt liquor remuneration.
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