She lifts a white dress, tugs your head (through)
like a needle in suture. Sonreír, she says. Tú Sonríes. Next door
un soldado climaxes inside Sister Laura straddled
before the tabernacle. Unwraps the black cord, knuckles white,
iron swings in pendulum. Brushes her thighs,
pale visage of the cross pressed to palm, snow on honey, straps
his holster as her habit falls past her knees. Outside,
you tug Oscar’s belt loop, show him
manta blossoms adorn your neck(line) as los soldados search
his satchel, pull an umber hardback & feign
comprehension. Oscar sniffs—they hand it back with a refusal
of entry to god’s house.
Sonreír, she says.
Tú Sonríes