Never Trust a Monk in Colored Robes by Kyle Hemmings

In my old bedroom
I was a turncoat monk
who became your ambitious lover,
sold your hooch on the street
for sixty pieces of silver,
excited by your stories
of your first tampon,
touchy recollections
those early signs
of anal bleeding.

And you vowed
never again
to be on your knees
discharging static-electric guilt
uttering a penance
for every fellatio committed
with blindfold and numbed tongue,
the groping tickled.
And you
praying
like some sex-starved convert
to a pagan god
of broken down dishwashers
and Budweiser Light epiphanies
your nipples erect
as totems
in between the sheets.