The Bad Priest
The Bad Priest
In Lyons (I think it was Easter, 1438),
I was a priest and somehow can recall
the dim church, the heavy clouds of frankincense
and the knights and the peasants lined up for communion.
I chanted the magic words
and did the magic gestures but
instead of the wine becoming the blood
of our Blessed Lord,
it changed into piss.
I was not ready for this.
Inside the chalice,
the reflection
of my own most hideous face -
I poured my face onto the floor and
a thousand rats writhing in a sea of worms
destroyed my last pretense of piety.
The congregation – the whores no less than
the assassins – knew that I was one of them
and could no longer hide the fact.
The stained glass windows crackled and shattered,
the church crumpled into rubble;
and we all shrieked
as the earth quaked
and God was deaf:
to the sobs of the amputees.
For the unforgivable crime of sacrilege
the ecclesiastical tribunal interrogated me
under the direction of the Bishop.
Those Dominican friars, those Domine Canes
(bloodhounds of the Lord), figured I'd sold
my soul to the adversary and when they
put me on the rack and hung me up backwards
and hammered each ankle and elbow in turn,
I saw that they must be right,
for they showed such tender concern
for the state of my soul.
I confessed but still had to be tortured again,
in order to confirm the first one.
The Dominicans wanted to burn my genitals
to get to the names of family members
who might be party to this conspiracy,
but in his mercy the Bishop forbade them.
I had to prepare myself for being burned at the stake:
There would be no merciful strangling instead.
I could pray for the grace of God,
but I knew I wouldn’t get it.
I could not even look forward to oblivion
as I regarded that yellow shirt
printed with the Devil's signs
that I'd have to wear on that
morning of shame and buckets of ****.
My friends will ask for my forgiveness
as they set the straw afire.
Will I be a Christian then?
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