the woman is warm: a marked disparity
to animals dead and dying. rubber boots
are worn, and her tasseled hat can slay the chill.
she walks into church. it’s cold. she doesn’t mill
about the unseemly sanctuary. ants
are on the third pew. she wipes them quickly off,
then sits, with her clasp-ed hands around a birch
occurrence: a tiny flake of bark, a cross
with jesus’s outline, maybe. she thought so.
her mind is itinerant, yet her plateau
of feverish fervor lingers, glassy, flat,
mosaic of her and god. a holy tryst.
“and here is the lord, our savior, jesus christ,
the son of the living god.” abiding her,
the fragment begins to tremble, focusing
activity down, then up, then left, then right.
indecorous sweat is drenching wood and light
alike. to the mind, the eyes’ kaleidoscope
has rendered her bible as a hoover, brown,
to swallow away her sins. vroom. and gone
is anthony’s dalliance with her. sister ann’s
detection of cheating on a math test years
ago. and then wallace, wally, knives and guns,
forgotten occasions. weeping laugh. and she
began to emancipate hysteria.
a delicate apparition for feria.
a nickel and dime, two honoraria
to christ the almighty, with sincerity.
the woman is warm: a marked disparity
to animals dead and dying. rubber boots
are worn, and her tasseled hat can slay the chill.
---
Five points are available from this poem. Two points are for explaining the title, but I cannot tell you how you might receive the other three.
I do not know if I like "saintless" or not. It's awfully earnest for me (other than the "vroom"), do not you think?
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
