To have dominion over the hearsay of God,
Would make me drunker than His wine.
If I were a man, I would be a priest.
No moral authority stems
From this stale-breaded womb.
If only we were recognized as healers of the sick,
Givers to the poor, providers
As mothers often are.
To give love and
Receive it.
Without a twisted need for sensual payment.
To have glittering fortresses made
from heretics’ pain.
By hearsay, we’re doomed.
As promiscuous thieves,
Bearers of sin,
Murderers of religious morality.
Man, who heralds us as his destruction,
His blessed soft, striking palms now stinging,
Ripping ribs and pliably silent wishes.
To be His kinder, right hand is
My sweetest desire,
To be celibate and not prude,
To bless the water, mythicize faith,
To cure another soul without
Offering my body to the plea.
As a woman, I am beholden to men,
Bound by His word.
But if I were a priest, I could redeem us both.