Sharon Olds

The Pope’s Penis

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 seaweed, the hair  
swaying in the dimness and the heat — and at night, 
while his eyes asleep, it stands up  
in praise of God.

spoken = Linsay Rousseau