richard pierce

richard pierce

12 March 2019

Saint Theresa

I saw you coming out of church on Sunday
Clutching your handbag and husband
And leaning against the wind and the country
With a smile painted painfully on your empty face
Stiff amidst those who guard you
Reclining gladly into the car we pay for
With the millionaire who owns you.

I thought of what you have achieved:
Hostile environment,
The deaths of disabled,
State-sponsored terrorising of the poor,
Sparkling necklaces and leather trousers for yourself,
Poverty in deserted streets,
Tumbleweed in city centres,
The desertion of industry,
Legally-binding self-destruction,
Windrush.
A seemingly endless list of selfless deeds.

Your Christianity seems of the type
That led the Crusades’ massacres,
Looted world history for nationalism,
Colonised continents to subjugate,
Segregated colours and creeds,
Exterminated the Other,
And blessed guns for Hitler.
Such kindness is rare.

I saw you coming out of church
And couldn’t fathom your hypocrisy.

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