Photo by J. R. Korpa
Peepholes and Smokescreens
Odeta Xheka
The least saintly pope in history they
claim to know
and waste no time to tell me all about him
Boniface, they say, his name is
and wouldn’t I like to
savor this Boniface like a kiss from the mouth of a stranger?
Imagine this, they say, how radiant you’ll become
if you learn about the least good pope
if, for a moment, you think of him as your old pops
perched over the counter, sigil in hand
small, doubly confused, caught mid-plunge
Until Pops himself becomes holy again
at the room of tears
in the back of the shop
I, myself, pay no heed to the dirt
spilling out, taking over
on the verge
of becoming holy and warm
like poison in the mouth
as they start manning the trays of fruit gone bad
naturally, I can’t remember what’s his name, Boniface-the-bad
just like I’ve long forgotten Pop’s tricks of the trade
who knows,
maybe he’s still patiently waiting
at the shore for life to throw him a bone
after all, there’re plenty of blinding headaches to nurse
more drinks to pour
unbearable tales to tell
inadequate feelings to fight
as he gets lost and found
The only one, the bad one
again.
Odeta Xheka
The least saintly pope in history they
claim to know
and waste no time to tell me all about him
Boniface, they say, his name is
and wouldn’t I like to
savor this Boniface like a kiss from the mouth of a stranger?
Imagine this, they say, how radiant you’ll become
if you learn about the least good pope
if, for a moment, you think of him as your old pops
perched over the counter, sigil in hand
small, doubly confused, caught mid-plunge
Until Pops himself becomes holy again
at the room of tears
in the back of the shop
I, myself, pay no heed to the dirt
spilling out, taking over
on the verge
of becoming holy and warm
like poison in the mouth
as they start manning the trays of fruit gone bad
naturally, I can’t remember what’s his name, Boniface-the-bad
just like I’ve long forgotten Pop’s tricks of the trade
who knows,
maybe he’s still patiently waiting
at the shore for life to throw him a bone
after all, there’re plenty of blinding headaches to nurse
more drinks to pour
unbearable tales to tell
inadequate feelings to fight
as he gets lost and found
The only one, the bad one
again.