AGNOSTIC HEARS 'THE LORD'S PRAYER' IN LATIN

by Heather Kirn

 

 

Father, no sir.  Your keys are in Cali,

sunk to the sediment of no man’s tomb.

Vent a pregnant tune.  Feed polenta

to a sick kid in Cairo from your tiara.

Pan him, know him, quote giddy anthems

that no business holds dear.

And diminish no busy Lolita, no sir;

stick it to no timid debutante’s nostril.

At nine or so, induct us

with ten tattered omens said liberally

and with marshmallow.  Amen.

 

        

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