our village priest hated us
so humble we appeared in our
rough sunday dress
we like sheep
while he prowled invested
in a kind of power and pride
thundering sermons on us
he'd spit almost on the book
looking up at heaven past the roof
pleading almost then back down
observing us made of mud
chapped hands shy faces
he had a remarkable friendship
with widowed madame elle
she gave so much to the church
prim and proper even grand
everyone gratified (especially he) of their
association and prestige
and what about the whisperings
ms. champigneul heard raised voices
at four o'clock in the morning
in the countesses private rooms
but then the old housekeeper
sickly was suddenly ill and died
no more was said
later our village priest
had traces of white in his hair
the color of poison
he sat in the carriage
on a bright winter's day
after coming back from the city
after coming back from the bishop
and visiting a brothel
he admired the churches'
gleaming
tall white spire
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