Makeshift ikonostasisAnn M. Fine
I have recorded hundreds of supplications; instead of prayer; confessed I was born and wept like an open infection. Everything before you; (I) crept by, defrocked of my mild malformities and de-selved my delivery until carnations peeled to the bone; I have gone out alone with neck of hair in clear view of the cameraman’s public eye taking of my rude white-neck (slim and open) never the less exposed, in the ozoneless low noon of the most ordinary finial exam (historic). One damned. Flute of teeth tucked in pit of anger. Mine. Song of technique, tattooed in immediate ink, on the pandemic skin of fainting wrists sung hard and solo to soft soles tip-towering over tripping whole cold burr ridges of rule and order (out) all the words plucked by accident, often so falsely acting like lyre strings were (just there) near, they over tried, and sounded off in an ionic temple of some sudden memory– sterile memory, someone’s, not mine. Mud of motherdom, I have declined, but kindly when asked why, and most lady-likely with this certainty-fading expression: have raised the slightest (ever so) blind and bent as quietly as deeply troubled to light a fire behind it.
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