Your erection, sweet and heavy,
a scavenger shovelling dirtfuls of fuck
into wet cunts, shakes like a diviner rod
when you get close. Yet, you are not interested
in wet or water; no, you just want your rib back.
You tell me it wasn’t His to take, wasn’t His to make
another body, leave a hole in the one he made for you.
You should know the rib I’ve got isn’t yours. The one I’ve got
belonged to a priest because God knew he’d think his bone
was the one that made Mary—the one who didn’t need
a boning to fill her up with grace. But you are not interested
in the immaculate or why it made her holy to lie there then
to get filled up with grace—God knows asking for consent is a dirty thing;
no, all you know is that it’s a desperate hole you don’t want anymore.
So what’s a girl to do? Yes, what’s a girl to do when you feel so low,
so low with your desperate hole? I’ve got one tighter than holy,
and it’s the kind of hole that craves a good bone, sweet and heavy, all the more.