Temple – for Pussy Riot
Doves, heads tucked, in small cages. Bleating lambs
with shitten legs, incense, candles that have a prayer
pasted around them. All these things are there
on sale. It is the selling there that damns
makes prayer transaction and the merchant’s price
the way to god. Who’s everywhere you look.
Not just in temples. Even in a book
his words are blurs; they scurry round like mice
Nibbled away at faith and love and hope.
He knows disciples listen, write things down.
He makes them free – they think he wants a crown.
He sighs. He takes his staff, a length of rope
Flogs merchants from the place, chooses a deed
there’s only one way we can ever read.