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An Ex-Nun Resurrects the Dating God they give me white roses, never red, and cards with old sisters on merry-go-rounds. they tell me their mothers light virgin of guadeloupe candles, thankful that I’m a nice girl. I answer their convent curiosity: No, there wasn’t a tunnel to the priest’s rectory. A few lesbians, but most were asexual. Not just tea, we had a liquor cabinet. they confess ex-girlfriends who taught tantric yoga, something about legs, incense, orgasms of the spirit. they think I’m our Lady of Lourdes, my water washes memory. I should say I’m nobody’s salvation, I’ve stopped carrying crosses, rolling away the stone, but I might show them the medal of saint anne sewn into the left cup of my old bra. they’d rather enshrine me, sleep with other women because they’re afraid I’ll break. they want me to cook in a black veil— lasagna followed by the rosary. I want the body of Christ on my tongue, not the white wafer, but bread made of dark honey, whole wheat, the way earth would taste if it were flesh. –  – ...

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