“How we forget nuns are real people too”
A water buffalo stood still, while the udders were squeezed
So unlike foreplay on second base, only brash and brute,
Fumbling to a bucketful of milk.
While a triangular piece of pizza, is eaten by an Italian nun,
Wondering where the house flies are,
Or the leeches in the rainy season, or the mosquitos at night,
Those rare moments of something settling on skin.
How her bosoms are beautiful and soft,
And will perhaps go the distance, without her blouse ever being opened,
Button after button, or fumbled, or for that matter
Squeezed by a baby’s mouth.
How she will spend her life, in chastity,
Only opening her lips to a round of Mozzarella toppings,
Remembering the day when a boy in 10th grade
Stood topping her lips, a kiss that sunk deeper,
Than any Mozzarella-topped pizza.
How sometimes, solitude and prayer fall short,
Unlike a slice of pizza; pepperoni, being her favorite.
This nun – Veronica – wears a wimple around her tied hair,
As she remembers, how that singing nun, Maria,
In Sound of Music, too wore one, her uniform.
How Maria gave life to her body with song, and then falling in love,
While a nun in Rimini, has neither song nor love,
Only a slice of life, that comes in the form of her cravings,
For junk food and binge eating, and she eats four slices of pizza,
Every Sunday after mass, to fill a vacancy,
God cannot seem to fill.
Kite Dreams 