Were I priest I'd lay you open like a rite and stretch you out across church conversation. I would translate every limb of you from my mother tongue to Latin, Greek, Greek orthodox. I'd mouth your arms as I would Sunday saints in sermon; sword and three pronged spear to frighten newer converts and the little criminals. My lips would linger on your mouth in word only, but with such words devout parishioner has yet to hear. My tongue would curve and turn at talking of the coil and curvature and kindness of your tongue. Were I a Cardinal, a Pope, a bishop used as a pawn I'd do you as a final prayer, then tucking you beneath my arm be gone from church and catechism contradiction and the dawn.

Rod McKuen