Blessed virgin, I've been eating roses
By your hedge grow. Mother
Mary in the morning
cutting crusts from salad plates -
you are the reason for my opalescence.
I've spun the rug of crumpled wrappers
and they shine like supernovas on your oyster shells -
coral-hot, they glisten. I am satiated
in your stark iridescence
and you dress me in moonlight. A bride
of sweet, sweet apathy,
arrayed in spotless dishrag rays
I crumble, awed by your simplicity.
You've crowned me in apple peels.
Appoggiaturas unapologetic, we worship in wavelengths
together, fourteen and trembling
and skinny in our unburnt skin. Bless
our fast, we pray
and coalesce my meal to your devotion. All these strings
hung from your fingers strum me,
vilified -
a song of orcas
underneath an oil-spilled shore.
Dear Mother, you enthrone me
in your loveliness eternally. May
canopies of full disclosure
rest upon the both of us tonight
as operatic crickets mourn
the loss of freedom's breakfast.
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