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The Pope's Penis | Sharon Olds
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate clapper at the center of a bell. It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a halo of silver seaweed, the hair swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night while his eyes sleep, it stands up in praise of God.
"For My Lover, Returning to His Wife" by Anne...
She is all there. She was melted carefully down for you and cast up from your childhood, cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies. She has always been there, my darling. She is, in fact, exquisite. Fireworks in the dull middle of February and as real as a cast-iron pot. Let’s face it, I have been momentary. A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor. My hair rising like smoke from the...