The Last Rite

By Elika Khosravani

Illustration by Etta Lund

high in this papal chair,

blessing zealous crowds, 

white knuckled with the strained 

neediness of childlike fists. 

you wish you were back in the chapel.

incense swaying over lit coals, 

forked tongue of smoke 

sullies the hem of your robe.

your ruse is up, down

on the barren soil. 

scraping, a shaped wound

eats you away, nine months at a time. 

you:  

a miracle, an abomination, 

a sacred host. 

thrashing in your seat, 

flesh torn between your teeth,

blood dripping from your lips 

and the crease between your legs. 

a fistful of kisses

cradling your cheek. 

clipped copper cord––

a splintering sting,

blessed blow, divine delivery. 

you surrender yourself, an offering, 

and let them make a man out of you. 

swallowed up in their victory, 

there is something so feminine about dying.