Papal Love

 

Papal Love

By Rina Shamilov

Pope holds power in his left thumb

In the protruding excess of his thighs

In jewels, in glorious hands

In collecting eyes

Fucking himself over with self-flagellation:

My own freedom

Lies in the tips of leather

That lash my skin

With sweet poison,

Like Papa’s papal arms 

Flicking my hands

With erroneous nails

One by one,

I am drilled in

And later,

In a week, maybe,

Or in a month

When he sees my skin

& its blue-blood trickling out the holes

He asks me who hurt me

“You did, Papa”

“No, I didn’t.”

No, he didn’t.

He didn’t.