Sainthood

Even after your last exit,
I’ve yet to finish your altar.
It has become vast.
I included all manner of things to make it more meaningful.
I acquired by the pile,
fast,
And at first, I was stealthy—
Hair pins, needles, rusted coins, wine bottles,
Acute angles of broken mirrors and bottle caps without words.
I was good.
I traveled north to find the perfect pine needle
But it died before I returned and, still, I kept it.

The first of many guests arrived,
And while some never left,
I didn’t complain.
They brought things,
Added to the art.
They played music and it allowed me to dance with a posse of rodents
Who came bearing gifts—
Shopping carts, toilet seats made out of faux wood,
Pottery and silver teeth.
I was onto something delicate.

I ate fever-bush for strength,
Consulted daily with the sorceress from the brothel across the street.
She told me to look for you
In the stark pillows of each hour.
I extinguished the light,
Kept a silent vigil.
The roaches rioted;
They tore apart the wheels of your chariot,
Chewed the immaculate symbols of the most potent prayers,
Gave wings to the drums ,
And together they flew to where you had gone.

It was a most flawless betrayal,
Executed at night.

Break

My feet are cold;
That is the constant.

Impotence.

My fingers beat a tune
From the scratches of Red Maroon
Fingernail polish that chip on principle.
I do not abide fear.

I am fearful;
That too is constant.