Sunday Catholic School

Sunday Catholic School

He was reading the bible and eating a Milky Way, with every bite he took I blushed. His lips a slight delicate pink. Inside me butterflies appeared and disappeared, an imagined prism, a blossoming blue flower expanding, drizzling from my pores. His hands were smooth, his fingers a bit forceful, his smile reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. He gave me something to drink just before, holy water? And it tasted like candy, so I took it. Then in bed, anal love. The dead of winter outside the window, the birds crying out to be heard, the grasshoppers snapping like the striking of a hundred matches. My thing hanging over his face, his tongue swirling around my sack, moans coming from somewhere unknown. Ten years have passed and his smile is tattooed in my memory, his black eyes, the way his gold rosary tickled my neck, his sweat dripping from his hairy chest, the Virgen de Guadalupe stitched on his robe. That night I became a man with God. Ahora ya eres todo un Hombrecito en los ojos de Dios. I have many more poems to write after this one, poems about hidden bibles in my room, stories about hot priests that pray themselves to orgasms, metaphors that mea nothing to a numb body, sentences that remind a boy of the real gift of God.


How I Imagine Satanas (the devil)

Your voice sings through the ears of infected hummingbirds fluttering from flower to flower, diseases spreading like butter over toast. You try holding me in your arms as I dance barefoot, leaping in the air and landing in first position. Your six inch long nails, sharp like cuchillos, caress my neck and glide down to my chest, circling my nipples like vultures, pajaros feos y negros. You wear an insectile dress dragging the voices of the damned like a dead carcass. You open six doors with the blink of your deformed eye—door one offers honey, the next money, door three has flowers, and four power, the fifth gives us laughter and the last conjures a happily ever after. You whisper in our ears to choose one or even two, red lips, your venomous tongue sliding out, split in half, like the tip of a faint-banded sea snake. Your glittering wings wrap ignorant souls that fly above the grounds, not quite into heaven, but close enough for you. At night you hide in fear of my chanting, I pray to God and his son Jesus, resando tambien a la Virgen de Guadalupe, asking for protection from them and not from you—your broken halo growing mold and a photograph, your baby face, an angelic image frozen where space was invisible and age was non-existent.

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