with Apollo forgotten and filtered through
dangling leaves of willows and waterlogged flowers
bunches of peonies and rosemary
some red in there too (all the better for the boy's deed)
she floats on water
and cannot remember how to feel the sun
or how to be tender
with this much blood in her mouth
what gave you the right to bring these bald faced women to my christening?
harpies are a habit
and not a great one at that
even with the mad girl calling my name
pulling off the sticky pearls as i sink further down into the floorboard
i gave it a blue hat
you know, the one with the parrot and no eyelids?
black shrouded with stars imploding and retreating to the beat of your heart in utero
baby's breath fogs my eyes
and you run your hands over your swollen womb and pretend not to think you are Mary
placing a wafer and rosary underneath your tongue
whilst the body of eventual ashes and milk from your breast
gums and trust on your areola
unabashedly plays John
and kicks your kidney at the sound of the first hymn
in your town, your not town, God is like the dust that cakes your shoes and socks and feet no matter how many times you wash them on Sundays.
he gets caught in your eyelash and keeps your heartbeat in a broken pocket watch filled with cotton
you hear someone calling your name. the pocket watch ticks and you rub the dirt further into your eye.
you do not answer.
your neighbors bake pie and the scent travels down to your house. when you ride your bike down the road, they smile and wave.
they have crooked teeth and glassy eyes.
you don’t like their smiles.
you don’t like them.
you don’t even know them.
you smile and wave back.