Today: I can’t stop watching the video
of the Pope yelling at the man
in the crowd. The Pope is pulled forward
so hard he nearly falls onto another
enthusiastic fan in a chair. He is pissed!
Yesterday: nada, boredom,
routine snow on already salted
streets, but today: A man assaulted
the Pope by accident! Call the police!
The Pope is yelling! A spectacle!
A drama! O, peaceful papa. O, holy father.
“He’s only human,” the commenters
remark on social media, on which all things
are called by their real name. Human.
I went to mass this weekend with my folks.
I hadn’t been for months.
Above the altar hung a modern statue
of an anorexic Christ (who, I must say,
resembled the artist formerly known as Prince).
His body sparkled, he held
a wishbone, or was it the holy spirit? Bird
or bone? Who can tell the difference?
The priest looked like William H. Macy
and spoke of moral logic and intuition.
Afterward, we had brunch, ate eggs, smoked salmon,
ham sandwich. My intuition
said yes. Then my moral logic spoke to me.
Poor animals, it said, who died for my sins,
for my desire, my hunger, my anger. My mother
took photos of our plates with her
phone. On social media, crowds of people
applauded our croque madame.
Again, the Pope yells at a man, a stranger
in Mexico, on my tenth
watch of the video. I see a flame in Pope’s
eyes, a sort of passion, and I do,
shamelessly, wonder if the Pope has ever
had sex, and what he would be like,
though he probably never has, probably
never will. His will is too great. But only
human. Call the police! Someone wanted
a piece of the Pope, and now he’s pissed.
Another person commented: “Forgive them
for they do not know what” and it ended
there. None of them know what. But it’s fine.
I don’t know what. You don’t know what.
Pope don’t know what. Wishbone-spirit knows.
But he isn’t human, not one bit.