It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate <br />clapper at the center of a bell. <br />It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a <br />halo of silver sweaweed, the hair <br />swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night <br />while his eyes sleep, it stands up <br />in praise of God. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Sharon Olds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pope-s-penis/
