Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom

Dulcinea

Say it again,

even though you were born

just half-believing,

and even though

I'm pockmarked, track-veined,

jaundiced, hoarse

with phlegm, and I'll kneel

down, just like a little

convent girl, before

the Sister's ruler.

Say it again,

even though St. Peter will

laugh himself silly,

and even though

I'm wearing the dress I bought for

the audition, and nothing

underneath, and just the thought of it,

that old confectionery word,

is trickling sweetly

down my thigh.

Say it once more,

even though you tell me

I'm no prioress,

and even though

I'm already doing the ledger

for the rent, behind my tears,

and weighing the costs -- what salvation

must be going for these days.  Make

no mistake.  You know I'd be

the first to pay.

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