It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
Anonymous submission.
Sharon Olds
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pope-s-penis/
