These Words Aren't Beautiful

She understood now.
She existed simply so God
could hear Himself sing:
all about alleys of pirates and
alleys packed with whores;
the throb of bones denied and
the hate of skin that smolders,
the submission of an evicted heart.
But most convincingly,
that aching pit within
where you know
your sacred child should be.
In humiliation
It makes her eyes lock tight.
Jaw set thick as pride.
She’s not a bitch
by choice.
She’s a whore
on demand.
By popular command.
Would God understand
if she would rather be
a spider?
With eight arms to feel everything?
Eight knees to part surreptitiously
upon invitation,
like chapped and resined lips
waiting for a Holy poison?
And yes,
she would have
a million eyes to see
exactly where
she went wrong.