Poetry and condoms?

The poem for the day, but I don’t think I want to keep this one in my pocket:

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 sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat — and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

I’m not sure about this as a poem (although I do like the last two lines) but the subject matter is certainly, err… provocative? No. Not quite. Interesting? Noooooo. Unusual. That’ll do. I don’t often think about the papal penis so this was my paradigm buster for the day.


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