line index

(feel the dormant volcano at the base of her skull)

everywhere she strolls lifting ancient tides

(too ancient to remember why)

her torso is a rookery 

she speak of saints and hate and those who would shut us off from God

she lays down the tarot pattern with wrinkled hands

warped like rippling waves

“Don’t do this to me,” I growl

I sin everyday to your name

like ghosts I have no eyelids

I cry tears of pure glass

this rosary no longer knows my prayers

if I could break anything beautiful, it would be this moment