A priest stands in the bathroom,
clutching the cross at his chest.
He sweats, but his neck is colder
than the tiles beneath his feet.
Desires of flesh
are to be repressed,
with voiceless words of God.
God, whose eyes are everywhere,
in the folds of sheets
and creaks of bed frames.
Silent love is expected,
reminded with glass window panes,
beads of pearls on strings of silk,
codes of canons,
and devotion untouchable.
A woman lies in bed,
silver hair caressing her shoulders,
grazing her saggy, pale breasts.
Her wrinkles speak to years of smiles,
warm even at rest.
And what a lovely woman she is.
Her kindness rivals saints,
her voice could shame a hymn,
and yet, she gets no company,
save for half a dozen cats.
And him.
Decades down the drain,
he white-knuckles the sink.
All of each other,
as right as two hands together,
and a head bowed in reverence.
He shivers, but hell is hotter
than the warmest cover.
A priest stands in the bedroom,
thumb before trembling lips.
He pulls his holy robe from the floor,
and gives her one last glance.
Lord in heaven, please look away.
What’s he to say
to the dove in the sheets?
Oblivious, reprieved,
owed a mountain of apology.
The penance will be heavy,
and his repentance genuine.
It is genuine.
But the absence of a body beside her
would be an agonizing way to wake.
And the day is already
so late.
A priest lies in bed,
craving an exception.
— Keeley Shelby is an artist, writer, and general explorer.