The Sermon

There’s a priest that’s been visiting my room.

He takes the shape of some know-it-all fly,

black-hooded and banging on and on about

letting in God, doing right to your neighbors, and

eating your greens, in the same, monotonous voice.

He doesn’t pause on the wall for one second,

not to catch its breath or

to enjoy the view. After all, he’s here with one

purpose, and he won’t leave until he gets what he wants,

or until God dismisses him from his duty.

The pulse in my neck ticks softly against the sheets,

my own chamber of confession.

I try to drown out the sermon,

but this guy sure loves the sound of his own voice.

I bet he likes what he sees in the mirror, too.

I whisper into my sheets that

I like my men silent, my priests hot, and my flies dead.