The old masters were obsessed
with angles the shape of men and women,
draped with pastel pink or blue togas
as they dole out God’s grace.
I have no thought of taking his hand,
my face as uninterested as David
on the ceiling of that famous chapel.
But the fear of disapproval lingers,
chastisement for the ecstasy
of Saint Teresa, displayed
in polished marble next to
our bleeding savior and
his unblemished virgin mother.
Somewhere between this dichotomy,
a tooth breaks as God bites down
on an old fashioned salted caramel candy.