a self forsaken son bleeds in his bed, fathers scream rosaries at the undead,
broken angels dangle from debarked trees, mothers carve their flesh with unanswered pleas,
paper-maiche sisters swallow pulped spleens, 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.