Poetry
Mondays in Hell Talk about smoldering, the nun compressed and cool in her de rigueur habit, face ?ushed from Sunday fever. Heat, radiant in open palms sparking through “ngers extended towards us. Hell “re “ickering at our low-grade fear at temptation fueled by the weekend’s ?eshy pop stars and trashy movies, hormones bumping against dressed-up lies and unclean soul-charring touch. Sister Noel crackling into spontaneous combustion, Christ inciting her “re tongue as she, “ushed with desire for only Him, weaves between desks, Dante branding the air the Inferno’s low-bottom hiss of spirits banished into eternal exile from God’s love. Oh Jesus, deliver these fools from their carnal ends. And we, pleated skirts hiked high despite demerits, hearts “aring over the face of our latest crush. More than one of us had lost her bra in charged afternoons playing hooky with bad-boys who hadn’t even begun their ascent over Satan. With puppy love’s lava thrill girding our loins we weren’t budging, God’s love” Yes! We wanted it.
