Sister Magdalene had her own parking space
in the lot of the church where my grandfather
placed his hand on my shoulder.
Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke
about the Father.
Something about bad breath.
I giggled a fragmented
Amen.

As a young girl I dreamt of the honor
of battle and the burden
of armor. Each morning I’d awake,
my wrist sore from painting fields
menstrual red. My thighs ached.
My horse's name was Gust.
She was the color of overcast.
Once, she got so tired
she kneeled. When she stood
her stomach held the night sky.
I laid beneath her and named stars
from bits of her fur
until the field began to whisper so loud
that I woke.

Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews.
Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame
tip-toed up her habit with the resolve
of a field of corpses rolling their eyes
toward salvation. When the flame
reached her chin I bit my lip.
Joan asked what’s wrong
or what’s right.
My mouth was full.

The flame grew to reach the Father,
kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.

I listened to the church bend
in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.

A cross. A crossroads.
The desire to erupt.
If the world were red and brown—
If. Jarr
it open.
Resist and grind.

The clouds were piped
by God. Onto the sky.
To forget the tombstones—
To remember the tomb.
Round it out and fluff.
Depress into the ground,
fellow bush.

Squeeze the spire.
Steal it of breath.
And then hear it gasp.
Pull the green
over its head.

The purple desire.
A vortex of lust.
If the clam were to shut
on the fingers of a plate,
then what is the pearl? A rooster?
A blue embrace.

The plates are traps.

When I first saw you
I knew I wanted to change
With no idea of what I’d become
My perspective of beauty was altered
To explore the world, far and wide
I had what I needed by my side
It showed when
I broke out of my shell

Focused on my flaws
I turned them into veins
The vibrant colors are my pain
At one point in time
I crawled through life
But now I fly above
The things I cannot change
I am humbled by my transformation
For this is my butterfly year

Brave and strong*
That how I describe her
Her beauty shines
As the morning breeze blows her hair

Her dress sways
Like the graceful grass
And she's as sweet,
As poppies in the field

Holding her parasol
With dignity and beautiful soul
Nothing will ever compare
To her never ending care

Surrealist Cut-up

            them of drooping
perspective        them blue water lilies,
    branches      boughs,    the blue      wavering
illuminated that window  is causing These the stars
                      in moonlight, to shiver;   late in
a ripple,     then, blooming
The clouds, sky,    tither.

Figurative-Literal**

These the stars then, blooming
late in the blue sky,
a ripple is causing them to shiver;
The clouds, perspective
branches of drooping boughs,
that window them
blue water lilies, illuminated
in moonlight, wavering tither.

silver tongue and
silver spoon
silver night and
silver moon
silver enough
to see your ****** expression
staring back in discontent
silver enough
to blind you with the sun
but never to rope it in
silver are your lover’s eyes
silver are your clothes
silver are your very thoughts
but at night your dreams are gold
always second fiddle
your bittersweet symphony
such a prayer you never whispered
you are a byproduct of greed
proof that not all that glitters is gold
you are proving it every meal
every woman you take
every miserable letter
you scratch into grecian history
what a pity to be born Midas’ brother
what a shame to live in second place
silver rope and
mortal man
swing slow from
silver tree
silver enough
to see his ****** expression
staring back in discontent