If Mother Theresa Were Found To Be a Child Molester

The paper moon would peel itself away
from its crusty glue axis. The cotton ball
clouds would drop. The fat tummy flowers
would leak magenta and cerulean all over
the wax grass.

Your entire diorama world-view would
fall apart.

There are cut out faces of saints and gods
taped to your poster board faith. They are
stacked and circled in a diagram of holiness.
In the center is your loyal heart. Ready to
climb the rungs.

You leapt out of a woman who prayed before
she even took a sip of water. Her face is pasted
right next to Mother Theresa’s. Your father was
the villain that every good hero story needs.
The dope dealer, the grenade. They play tug
of war on your shoulders.

An old woman once stopped your mother in
an airport and told her you would be a preacher.
Your mother welded this identity to the cufflinks
of your three piece suit. Brushed it through your
velvet hair, poked demons out through your feet.

All you ever wanted was to be good.

When I hold you, honest and dismantled,
all I know of you is good. All I know is a man
that so desperately wants to be sinless he would
go forty days without touching himself. Who curses
himself for thinking of another woman. Drinks
holy wine from little plastic cups because he
believes that molecules can contain blessing.

Your faith is that huge.

When I hold you, you are sinless.