Penguins
we called those untouched
Brides of Christ
who knelt on rough floors
to escape burning dreams
in their celibate beds.

After Catechism
we practiced mortal sin
in our fathers’ orchards
with befuddled boys
tutored by dirty magazines,
pretended octopus hands
inside our bras
belonged to movie stars.

One by one
we tired of dreams
that refused to breathe,
took the easy out
and succumbed
to connubial myths.

After our white weddings,
familiarity exorcised the devil
we originally craved,
left us in sexual poverty
among our designer toys,
cloistered and chaste.

Now we confess to therapists,
perform tae bo penance,
and Zoloft has become
the sacred communion of choice.