blasphemy’s cooking from a poor man’s
eyes, nose, lips;
steaming hot. insipid steak on his tongue, he still thinks he’s not caught.
he’s burning &
he’s not burned alive.
he has taken the priestly gift from the temple: he’s fearless [you think?].
staining the wine cups, the gold dust,
staining it with his uninvited entrance.

“i’m not a sinner,….
i was just hungry”

he tells the priest, like it’s a game [i mean, we’re all hungry too – we’re humans for christ’s sake!]: like it’s a bet made with friends on
who’s fearless enough to stain a cathedral bright red without
calling down a curse on himself.
still, he pricks the meat hard
& watches it bleed (unmoved), until he’s unable to wash his hands.

until his sins are too many to escape the curse.