It is hard to see God where He is.
There are too many upright priests.
You are better off in Mozart’s prison.
You can escape if you listen closely.
As for a way to feed your fear,
only her fingers entwined with yours
will sate the emptiness of a crazed heart.
Notice how a woman’s body fills God’s.
Imagine, shackled, opening the door.
You lay on your belly watching the thrush.
The orchestra tells you it’s time to go.
Fingers so nimble they conjure love.
I’m reading subtitles on the screen
before I see they’re in English.
(after Journal d'un cure de campagne, 1951,
Un condamne a mort s'est echappe, 1956,
and Pickpocket, 1959)
We went out among the cattails after marbles
to smoke and drink and talk about the girls
we wanted. One among us even told us how.
I never believed anything, I was too young
to be that hellbent. I went to church with Irene.
We made out during mass in the back row.
We were agile. She knew just how to stroke
my cock without looking. I slid one finger up
her skirt. The priest droned. We waited for what?
Letting her go. Giving her the freedom she’d earned,
not fire. Or letting her burn the church down
while we watched from the hill above the town.
She never knew if I wanted to go to mass.
She did know I liked the view from up here.
(after Le Proces de Jeanne d’Arc, 1962)
(24 November 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander