Poem for the Holy Pedophile

My blood line
is covered in
Holy Men, though
devoid of Holy Women -

I hope
that in
your asinine displacement
that you are twisted - sucker punched,
de-fisted, deflowering
all of the little alter boys
you stocked with a kiss,

or your face
haggard bones of mine:
bone of my bone
flesh of my flesh
dead
but living
in the Sunday paper
where your name
explodes across my fingers,
spilling my black coffee
drenching my mind
in your pedophilia.

Remember, daughter
you'll say: I fucked your
father when he was still a boy,
I made him the way that he is,
inevitably, invariably, unmistakably
shaping you
while inside your
mothers womb, the hands
that caressed your mother,
the penis
that folds
the canvas
of your
religion.

A rosary, of a girl.

Or the boys who's hand carved
faces shout my name
like a curse.

My casualty
is for you, inside
the sunflower yellow
glow of 1976
when they put you in the ground;

or my shame when
nine years later
I took my first breath,

or the black cloth
of your profession,
like my black eyes
or my grandmother
slapping me
that I should think
evil of you.

You.
U.
In my sick-small way
vicariously
fucked over by you.
Isn't it just like
Jesus to have his virgin
disciples introducing sexuality
to children like porn stars?
Isn't it just like a woman
to harp over it? Just like
a family member to feel
the guilt of it?

Just like a victim?
Always the victim, grandfather-cousin, am I not?

Just like the smell of rape
to cover the bible. Just like
the smell of sex; those pages,
or your hands in the bones
of my hands, reading, and then
writing about them.

Little boy lost.
Little girl crying, walking home across the frost
of your fat upper lip.

Those little boys,
my father
in his dying light
chocking to death
on the fright,

or my hand in his,
my duty
to stand by
waiting.

My adulthood trestled
like golden fleeces
where infinity is inevitable -
but I have no faith in this species,
or in faith where the disease
feasters.

I would make love to the devil
before I turned myself to float away
on that other tide.

I would dance on your grave
with my soon to be widowed mother.
To stop the cycle....

Fill my family with Holy Women,
and bury the sins of the Holy Men.

(If I could kiss the Holy lips of God, I would fill my mouth with poison. Wear death on my lips like a gloss. Walk the halls of heaven as a black-widow-madonna. Mother. Mother. Women created sin. They created vengeance as well.)