I Don’t Suffer Nuns


Max Ridge

I don’t suffer nuns. I don’t say “death,”
and I don’t say “no.” Consequentially, 

I loved every get-wet raccoon
in my childhood tree. “Get toasty” 

one says undoing his
Ferragamo tie like a pervert. 

Every raccoon is a pervert when viewed
in the context of their thumbs. I knew

this even as a Queens kid, listening
to them argue over the telephone 

bill, leaving the T.V.
on—before 

some twilight instinct twitched in a
medieval precinct of their hot brains. They’d 

really go at it then, and care not who
shuddered from the caterwaul.


Max Ridge is a writer from New York. His poetry has recently appeared in Dovecote Magazine.
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