tight, up in ribbon, on the doorstep.
the cardinal turned red, seeing the violets
resting, wrapped. how the flowers got there?
it is a coquettish mystery. a catastrophe, really.
tucked in the ties, a heated note, a headless
picture of a nude form, another snapshot of a
of a collarbone, bare. a smile.
who will not talk now? the town bristled with
the threat of gossip. the jewel of the diocese
under threat from some lewd devil. the flowers,
the lace, the images of late. everyone knows
the type of love these connote. next,
the film rolls. sin in celluloid, the cardinal’s hands
shake as he peers through plastic. life has become
too fast. so he attempts to slow. locked under key,
only him and the cleaner: that sole, sad boy with no friend.
the paraphernalia goes deeper than a lost pencil into
that desk, for no eyes save the wicked.
***
next week, she has plans for a new gram: perhaps
polaroid flipbooks, filthy as the ground. she smiles
as she concocts poses in her head, ponders when
her crush will see: the boy who cleans the cloisters,
who wipes the tile free of grime in both bathroom and
church kitchen, who paces pews with cloth and bottle,
(careful hands good on soft wood) who has a key and
care, the trust of the church, who cleans the cardinals
office when he isn’t there.