Thursday, October 3, 2013

Cherokee & North Highland

After pumping gas I realized I had lint tangled in my braid. How many people noticed?
Probably none.
Instead, they saw the sleeping horses inside my chest; only an hour before,
thundering around my rib cage with no restraint.

Balmy days are best at regarding my confessions:
silent Hail, Mary's until I bleed.
                   sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. 
                   and sorry to you, especially.

Picking at the black speck in my flax, my soul remembers:
                   blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs
                   is the kingdom of heaven.
And, I might add,
                  broken are their bones under the weight
                 of grief.

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