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by Z.D. Dicks 


The priest knelt     to an idol     a crisp

photo square and pen mark     signed

like stigmata     with three crosses     he felt

those kisses in his throat     when chanting

a name     and bowed     shins pressed to stone


That he heard     angels were women     it made no

difference     cloistered     in solitary footfall

he knew     no infernal wings could shroud him

as this new heat had     where old devotions

sank     as oily incense     his chest tightened


Forehead on floor     he heard news     of the

second coming     whispers thudded into ears

incanting     his limerence     a ritual call to prayer

where a new God     demanded reverence     and

a sacrifice of flesh     one consecrated pound


This was his revelation     looking at white

pressed fingers     clutching a relic     the first

of many     when he laid it to rest     his fetish

above Jesus     and replaced a cross 

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