A ripening sky-
dotted ambiguously with
molten fibers--

the sculptor’s daughter
And her flesh shavings.

How corrupted,
the christening angels:
the sunsets they cry, and contaminants they hide.
Our faux harvest of a blessed apple,
slaughtering the whole barrel,
Ripping out their cores.

Zipped through bursts of
squints and charcoal,
inky, starless
irises--

Dolly Misandrist; not human;
one after the other, sliced those sonnies up,
Knocked them down like chess pieces.

Perhaps she wanders, and flees-
filled with - fire -
spilling over with sin;
perching on her
Shattered masterpieces.

A flock of birds,
ringing around the carcass,
pounced to tear apart their evening meat--

they chased Dolly the damsel to the state border,
She was fenced in by boys and their
grandfather’s pistols.

Cleared her throat to plead one last swan song,
but was interrupted by the scraps
of bread they threw into the duck-pond.

The first boy shot her right between the chest-
“You shouldn’t have been such a **** Misandrist.”
Eyes-
“That’s for my brother.”
Head-
“Ladies don’t come first where you’re going.”
A speechless, frozen moment passed.
Blank stares. Open mouth. Nothing coming out.
“That *****.”

The trees scurry from beneath
the ocean of stars. Come Sunday morning,
the church pews are full.