The Whore and the Holy Angels

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The Whore and the Holy Angels
 
These brothers are devoted
to the same lady; theirs, a monastery love.
They mold her Rosary eyes
into a vision they would be seen through.
Chanting to her Sacred Heart,
her name, in passing beads.
 
Brother Onorphrio grows a weary eye
staring down the hole of his black guitar.
Pastes a Spanish note
onto her masonry eardrums.
His calloused fingers dangle
from a gold chain around her white throat.
 
Brother Fiamingo mixes a mountain pallet
of her eyes, the mocha streaks green.
Paints a naked leap through
her belly's blown grasslands.
A handbag, she must have a handbag,
to match such earth true hues.
 
Brother Dongicio breathes a flaming alphabet
into her tongue’s dead meat.
Searches through her noteless throat
for the music, the echo.
 
No time for jealousy between comrades.
There's so much of monastery joy
in awaiting her next indifferent move.
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