a self forsaken son bleeds in his bed, broken angels dangle from debarked trees, paper-maiche sisters swallow pulped spleens,
fathers scream rosaries at the undead, mothers carve their flesh with unanswered pleas, Christ choking on a candied apple preens.
I push aside the cataclysmic gloom, drink moonbeam light from the white river spume, mock the snake bit reverend who forecasts doom, and tap my shoes atop this nationβs tomb.