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No Straight Lines

No Straight Lines

Painting of a small English village, the figure of a Catholic priest can be seen walking down a tree lined road
The priest moonlights as a magician   because reconciling religion with   desire and   sawing someone in half   both require faith and steady hands.   He steers a stained glass window  as if the window were a ship with three masts   and the sky beyond it octopus   ink, and he guesses that also makes him  a sailor charting the Blessed Mother’s blue  silhouette.  He can be a cartographer for somewhere better, though there are no straight lines to   anywhere anymore. Everything   zigzags like   black flies in God’s   Mouth.  And every time the tide recedes   it flees from the summer   he kissed Michael and tasted limes.  An old map unfolds  under the priest’s hands. The softened creases   caressing salty currents along   once-familiar lips—  The passive voice bewitching slicked   skin out of scripture.