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Of Father and the Nun

  Breasts,lips and loins the four stations of her cross,
 So sacrosanct to a self-definition devoid of self-esteem

 The felt bristles of her fedora flagellate her areola

       A single scintilla traverses her spine

 Her concupiscent self-awareness belied by deadpan stare
Nudity, the only cloak of modesty from appraisingly  disapproving eyes

She arches her head touching her soft flax against the fiery  nape of her neck.
A wave of heat washes over her back in immolation
Drips of flame rush down between her thighs: her pelvis murmurs  with spasms of delight

A man lies supine on the mattress, watching her perfectly bissected image from behind his engorged crozier

He beckons her with a light flutter of his hand as the fedora  falls away

 Come, he says, come....
Written by Bonang
Published
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