mother 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 underneath curtains 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 friend is the only one not to stare at you when you walk into the diner. she orders you sweet tea. it tastes like lemon and salt. you do not look into your glass when you drink it. no one does.
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.
on summer nights, all nights, you can hear the sounds of fiddles and tambourines, rustling among willow trees and fireflies. your dog gives a growl and thumps his tail. when the moon is out, you fight the urge to follow the sound into the forest.