The Repenter Poem by April Michelle Wolverton

Oh, Magdalene! How
slight it is, your stutter, as you
kneel before his irreverent feet.

Your vowels have grown
silent-as a split tongue-softly mouthing
your freedoms into the still air.

The whimpers can still be heard, those
vacant cries that lubricate
the hollows of this writhing tunnel.

'I control, ' he says, hanging before you
as dispelled lightning-lovelustlove-fisting
his urgency into his awaiting palm.

Oh, Sacrilege! Oh, Repentance!

Rotten, they are, the forgotten fruits that slide,
ever so easily,
through well-oiled clutches.