Somehow in every
nationality, His beard
connects. My Jesus sucked
His gut in
on the cross,
mewed through a mouthful
of blood
red regret, all to make
His jawline pop.
I stop in front of the mirror,
covet my own ass.
A New York 4 is a
Bethlehem 8, at least.
If we, the brides
of Christ, are to be equally
yoked—then, ladies,
it might be time
to hit the gym.
At my last supper,
Peter tried three times to pass
me the bread, but I denied
the flesh. Jesus laughed
and poured me another glass—
we both know how it feels
to be tested, the rumbling
wedged between the second
and third rib.
I never said this, He said,
but it’s really the carbs
that kill you.
