In Rome, I stare
at the white marble of Saint Teresa
and sin strikes me like a
gong.^1

In the vestibule waiting
for my Fleabag moment, no
hot priest in sight— just
desperate nuns,
ugly believers, &

dirty thoughts of devotion
for donation

(desire is the meeting of flesh & commodity)

spare a euro’s worth of caresses for
Bernini,
the clergy, &
me.

When I was ten, God was
the sun and darkness
holy haunted by
angels.
I am no nun
for Christ’s sake,^2 no
Joan, Simone, Teresa reincarnate—

(vulgarity is a construct)

What did Teresa see at the end
of her world? Riding Cupid’s spear
to the waiting room of
death/heaven:
Did she yell out to God
I’m coming?
——
1 Dorothea Grossman, “I have to tell you”
2 Dorothea Grossman, “I allow myself”