She’d herself danced with the devil.
So she said.
Over and over again.
When she pulpiteered about Lucifer
a wistful smile seemed to weave itself into her
face, even gentled that huge hooked nose.
Made the rimless glasses sparkle.
On Sundays she wore a frozen smile.
The wolf ingratiating himself to that little
lonely girl in the woods, his head covered
by a starched, white coif.
Leaving room for the ears.
Under his chin the big white bow.
Sin, sinner, sinnest.
A basket full of gluttony.
Lipsticks made from damnation.
Lust, iniquity, transgression, sloth.
Wrath.
Snow White and seven castrated dwarfs.
Virgins are eaten by dragons.
King Kong the gentle, imprisoned and
exhibited, prodded and cut.
Edification.
Hallelujah.
In the name of the Lord.
When Sister Emilia stopped preaching,
her face bathed in holy sweat and zealotry,
I imagined how she once took money before the service.
Rose is sublime. She writes like an extra sharp letter opener resting unseen in an old desk.