Flesh Trade. By Dennis Moriarty

I know that nuns trade in flesh
when darkness falls
And the last prays fade into silent self denial.
I know they harvest religion
From the black earth of the kitchen
Garden
Riding their spades in an agony
Of screaming contrition.
And when the priest arrives, his cassock flapping
Like black bruised wings,
I know the nuns
Cower in his wake like famished whores
In a third world brothel.
And when the final candle hisses,
Spitting it's last fat,
I know the nuns low like cattle at
Market,
The auctioneer priest lowering his
Gavel
As he trades flesh with mother superior.

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.
In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.