Host

The pontiff has a whale eye
turning like a planet in his head.
His bone groans from the weight,
the other eye is cowed and red,
squashed bloodshot in a corner
with his nose, his lips.
His skull is like a shell
exploded, the rest lopsided, bent
to fit this ball of blackness in.
Tears of oil fall when it
turns to heaven, when it blinks.
At night his body is shaken
as it rolls back over hours
finally baring ropes of nerves
encrusted with salt.
These seem to grow each night,
boring into the socket
until the old man gasps
and the parasite sings darkly
out of his closing throat.
The priests whisper together
the eye has found its throne.
They go to him, and see
the other eye has fallen out,
the human mouth is gone.
The pontiff's body rises,
robed in blubber, ghost of bone.
The eye sings out
as it drinks them in.