hurling rocks at the front door,
st peter stood at the end of driveway in his slippers,
the last to leave, fury-weeping & red-faced.

he remembers the cocks, screeching 
two times & himself denying god out of fear,
hoping his life would burn up in that sun.

the roosters lay eggs this time,
i fill my pockets with them, they're
heavy with all of st peter's guilt,

the rocks 
on which he build churches 
on which he built a fist-made god 
on which he clenched body so 
tight that the fish around his boat 
turned granite & sank.

on which he prayed to wrath 
until it festered into a body,
a throne-man like we all have known,

his chicken bones on the dining room floor
without the saint women to wash & clean.

we throw the eggs, shells smashing 
on the windows, one shattering glass
the glass becoming egg shell, the egg shell
becoming stained glass, red & blue & green 
& autumn yellow-- the cocks laying oranges
made of glass-- shards or feathers?

our cocks crow, loud & confused.
what is a man then if he renounces everything?
if his god has been a god of hurt.

if brotherhood is gravel & always leaves 
the mouth dry & bleeding.

what is to be salvaged in a screaming cock?

i take mine off & put it in the drawer
with the rest of the rubber dildos

st peter's gets louder & louder
& louder-- an alarm clock-- a red-flicker siren,
a plague. 

the roosters eggs are all yolk,
no whites at all. i crack one over
my head & it runs down my back,
griddle sizzling on down spine--

the roosters give me green shiny feathers.
i tell them i'm some kind of man,
though i'm not sure what kind yet.