The Passion of the Wife

[heslopian]

I release my longing through small doors.
While boiling eggs as you showered
I thrust my hands into the pan,

holding them there for as long as I could.
I screamed and saw the face of Christ
looming just above the stove.

Vinegar from the sponge in His mouth
dripped into the water,
and I wept with satisfaction.

Later, when you'd come downstairs,
you asked me why I screamed.
I asked you why you didn't run

when you heard me screaming.
I couldn't hold a pen all day.
I told the priest it was an accident;

I'm sure he thinks you're hurting me.
There is a truth somewhere,
in churches, symbols and The Book.

In accepting this truth I've denied your falsity,
the deceptive fact of your penis,
like songs which heathens promise are pure.

When it throbbed against my leg
as you held me,
your face in a vise,

begging me to handle it,
I closed my eyes and thought of Him;
but of course you went no further.

I know there's goodness inside you,
somewhere beyond that mindless lust,
which views my body as more than a home

for ours and God's children.
As your wife I will help you find it,
as well as your own small doors.