So quick, your fingers rose up to strangle us
in our bed. Your hands around my neck
closed slowly as I slept - no one to hear these cries,
my lover's tear-streaked lips already gagged
by your good friends in the church.

With a pull of a lever,
you proved yourself a Gestapo, justice's holy
hangman, dressed in crosses -
little Hitlers, all smiles and donation plates,
extended hands with fingers
still warm with Matthew Shepard's blood.
 
Jesus, he weeps for you
and you mistake his tears
for a benediction.

But when mouths still bloody from
referendum-shaped beatings
scream your name and others descend
(split lips, cracked ribs, still unbroken)
you cower in your temples and rectories.
You cry out "Privacy!" and "Democracy!"
That Big Brother stare
loses all of its charm
when it's directed at you.

How quickly privacy changes
definition when you wish to own it.