We kept the magazines under the bed,
flooring a box of comics like treasure
hid in vestries: our icons of pleasure
forbid, our saints of sin whose votives fed
our hungry eyes. We saw them naked, spread
like angels crucified, opened and speared
to teach us mysteries--such mists they cleared,
such veils lifted, like God showing His head.
We begged mercy from Diety we feared
no more than disappointed moms; we said
we'd quit those pagan paths, but always veered
astray again--raptured by that pressure
firing our loins like Pentecost, which led
back toward a glossy heaven no less sure.
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