Citrus fruit perfume tickling the air
The broken flesh thin with browns and yellows
Sweet oil and hard seeds are their spoils to share
The flushed, shameful pulp thrown to the gallows.
Like squishy virgins recoiling sin’s touch.
The binge and gorge of the hungry glutton
Who, with licked lips and a damp groin, takes much
From the Church basket, pays with the button
Of his coat, and flashes the altar boy.
Incensed and throbbing, the priests cry and cry.
The butcher saluted by a meat tray
Chokes his gorgeous pride with a plastic tie
Pounding patties and snipping sausage skin
He grunts deep and comes to a sloppy pause.
His wife makes dinner and prays for her kin.
The thing in the mirror rebels no cause
Her body only made holy by men
And bloodshed in the name of tradition
Shaping her slow tease since she bloomed at ten.
Abused by boys and left scorned by women.
-Jack Power
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