[from The Church (6)]
We’ve gathered to rob it. But who are these people? We walk in. Chandeliers splatter. Fields of butterflies. And trunks of weeds.
You’re behind the counter: “I’m glad you came.”
A ball of fog. Old stone ruins. Hair and bone. Honey.
Where are you?
A small old woman puts down her chisel and leans up against a statue. It’s human. But it’s monstrous——scabbed up on a rock’s waving silver.
And it’s smiling. And it’s laughing.
Small dark centers. Smaller and smaller.
School children emerge. Round and round. They are singing. How can this be happening? Round and round.
I’ve stepped in dog shit. “Where’s it?” a tourist asks. He’s quite good-natured. He calls it a “landmine.” I beat the shit out of him.
Round and round.
Heavier and heavier.
Till the shores cry out.
And the snow’s all red.
“It’s sad,” she says. “She loves you.”
Author Discusses Poems