Sister Magdalene had her own parking space in the lot of the church where my grandfather placed his hand on my shoulder. Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke about the Father. Something about bad breath. I giggled a fragmented Amen.
As a young girl I dreamt of the honor of battle and the burden of armor. Each morning I’d awake, my wrist sore from painting fields menstrual red. My thighs ached. My horse's name was Gust. She was the color of overcast. Once, she got so tired she kneeled. When she stood her stomach held the night sky. I laid beneath her and named stars from bits of her fur until the field began to whisper so loud that I woke.
Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews. Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame tip-toed up her habit with the resolve of a field of corpses rolling their eyes toward salvation. When the flame reached her chin I bit my lip. Joan asked what’s wrong or what’s right. My mouth was full.
The flame grew to reach the Father, kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.
I listened to the church bend in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.
When I first saw you I knew I wanted to change With no idea of what I’d become My perspective of beauty was altered To explore the world, far and wide I had what I needed by my side It showed when I broke out of my shell
Focused on my flaws I turned them into veins The vibrant colors are my pain At one point in time I crawled through life But now I fly above The things I cannot change I am humbled by my transformation For this is my butterfly year
them of drooping perspective them blue water lilies, branches boughs, the blue wavering illuminated that window is causing These the stars in moonlight, to shiver; late in a ripple, then, blooming The clouds, sky, tither.
These the stars then, blooming late in the blue sky, a ripple is causing them to shiver; The clouds, perspective branches of drooping boughs, that window them blue water lilies, illuminated in moonlight, wavering tither.
Monet Water lilies 1916: https://artsy.net/artwork/claude-monet-blue-water-lilies
silver tongue and silver spoon silver night and silver moon silver enough to see your ****** expression staring back in discontent silver enough to blind you with the sun but never to rope it in silver are your lover’s eyes silver are your clothes silver are your very thoughts but at night your dreams are gold always second fiddle your bittersweet symphony such a prayer you never whispered you are a byproduct of greed proof that not all that glitters is gold you are proving it every meal every woman you take every miserable letter you scratch into grecian history what a pity to be born Midas’ brother what a shame to live in second place silver rope and mortal man swing slow from silver tree silver enough to see his ****** expression staring back in discontent
ekphrastic poem on "Ferment" by Roxy Paine, a sculpture of a silver tree in the Nelson-Atkins Art Museum's sculpture garden