Penance [2008]

Why you talking about old shit?

At birth her face was dipped in rose-petal water, curse of woman.  She remains the same gentle flower with crossed legs, awaiting the priest’s loss of integrity, his eyes prodding her acid-etched body, carved from silk.  Around her, men and women consume the floor space, drinking from big and small paper cups labeled: “Java.”

Coffee and chewing gum, the staple crops of everlasting salvation, extend the patience of man just enough for the complete appeasement of God’s ego.

Her gaze lies behind the priest’s comb-over, he’s flattered and unknowing.  She’s a tank of a man, laying waste to the South.  Her robes are the skins of fallen enemies, their weak-willed women as well.

A baby cries, cringes erupting.

“Little brats like that shouldn’t even be brought here.  They’re all doomed to Purgatory anyway.  Would-be miscarriages God ought not even bother to have granted life to anyway…lucky for them, God and the fallen angel are bored and give us a chance to play for them.”

Rosy cheeks wither.

“I am become man, perhaps death too.  I sense God’s shudders, frightened by his own creation.  I am his fatherless son, his rival, his harvester of the flesh crops.  I sully my hands to complete his grace.  I, bringer of floods, bringer of the plagues.”

The priest continues to prod as he sings praises in God’s name, not knowing what she is.  Mass will end and she’ll be on her knees, all the while wishing she was still a man, strong enough to tear his man-parts off and hand them to God with a scowl, scolding the Creator for this cretin’s existence, his heart, soul and body the foul, stale dirt of Earth.  There are plums and cherries everywhere, succulent and juicy - skin and blood brought from harvest. Mission accomplished.

Since her start he wished to wilt that perfect circle of roses.  Her baptism the drowning of twisted roots, communion and wine the inebriation, and her confirmation the lubrication he couldn’t bring about himself; his wrinkled, flab-riddled body with those dangling things.  She wanted it and he saw that she received.  Through marriage he’d wash his hands of her and through death the circle of this divine comedy would find its end.

For now he enjoys his partaking in the wonders of this darling twelve year-old, a few hours from thirteen; such a cute girl.  Pigtails and freckles accentuate his joy; those bare girl-parts make it all the more wonderful.

On her knees, dehydration follows his rummaging pleasure; three, four, five, six times now he’s gone over his threshold; to alert him of her painful thirst would only heighten his desire to deny her water and rest. Says she’s so good.  She can stop only when he’s ready to make her bleed.  Over now please, she’d beg if she were less of a man.

“No, want to be a man, be a man.”

She’s growing.  Will be seven-feet-tall soon, razor teeth filling her blackened mouth – filed them down herself on some lonely desert night.  Her breasts harden and seep inward, stomach tightens, bones thicken and girl-parts push out for several miles.  Legs and arms, caked in wet muscle-batter, start to dry.  God’ll be sorry.  She’s invincible now.  A he now.  Can’t be hurt as a he, ever, no matter what.  God approaches.  Takes a slight step back, a miscalculation.

“New mission.  If you’re willing.  Remove the man-parts of the soiled man-priest.  Bite and tear them from the meeting of his thighs.  Swallow them and you’ll never be a girl again.  Only a man; thirteen years of age.  He must know what he’ll never feel again.”  He awaits approval.

A nod, never dying, “Yes.”  Words make him a her again.  God floats away in a cloud from the sun.  Ascending everything.

Eyes open, he wants to penetrate her body so badly.  His favorite girl.  Always.  Hopes she never ages!  Knows that she wants it, bad.  Bad girl.

Mouth opens, and lets them go in as far as possible, both parts.  Grins into his eyes and the mouth closes forever, reconciliation beginning.  Twists and turns, tearing.  Cheap cologne turns to the acid stenches.  Blood drips from the sides of the mouth.  Swallowing the trophy, just how he likes it.

He whimpers.  No more girls.  No more man-parts.  There’s a smile for the man to be.  Never a virgin, now one more chance.  Penance begins for the both of them.  Amen.