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Father, I confess to a faltering faith. 
For I’ve bore witness to your Saint 
Magdalene for sale on East 38th. 
Money for pleasure, a biblical feint.  
The Virgin Mary carries latex love, 
a sanitized and sultry slut. 
There is no God in the blue above— 
but on her knees stays the beaten mutt. 
A pimped out sinner sold for an eighth, 
adorning only her Habit of self attaint. 
Choral hymns stink of Catholic wraith, 
breath that reeks of poor self restraint. 
Father, I confess to sins hereof. 
My act of contrition washed down with rotgut, 
deliver me absolution from the Lord above, 
“Go in peace, you heretic smut.”

Elise Dobson

In the Shadow of Magdalene