I Want to be Your Church (I’m Sorry)

On the news, the Pope turns

another bird into a bishop. A waste of song,

if you ask me. Still, as much as I hate

the holy, I can’t help but want to serve

as the portal for your transcendence,

my stomach your altar, my bloody

fingers your cupped wine. I wish

I could love you without the worship.

Why do I want to be your church,

your prayer? You could burn

all my toed pews and I’d just stand there,

flightless but fearless, an unevolved

emperor penguin. Blame

my upbringing—these zealous compulsions,

this easy surrender. Maybe I should be

angrier at how, when you say

I love you, I genuflect,

how all the fun facts I know

live in trinities. One: making bread

into body is called transubstantiation.

Two: according to hymns,

God can raise you up

on eagle’s wings. Three:

even at his most powerful,

Francis only has one lung.

This means nothing much, except

that we might be able to

watch him whimper

when the day of judgment comes—

it will be harder for him to run.