Little Catholic School Girl

You poor little sinners,

with your plaid skirts and holy beads,
picket fences and purity rings,
foreheads slathered in ashes,
and relentless guilt meant to wash away
with water blessed by men
that have nothing kind to say.

You modest little disciples,

with your righteous stares and polo tees,
silver crosses and repressed needs,
crisp clean white dresses,
and confessions told to a man with three names
who states all is forgiven
if you kneel down and pray.

You naive Catholic school girls,

with your praying hands and broken knees
from kneelers that refuse to free
the few who understand
that singing hopeful hymns and
unwavering faith
does not ensure that you are safe.

For the men that you trust,

have sins greater than your own.
They prey on children who have just barely grown.
The place that you are told
expels evils of the world
welcomes demons with open arms
and your life is unfurled.

But please,
don’t mind me,
continue to pray
to a God that lets them get away
with turning a blind eye to immoral “claims”
but condemns those to hell
who just love their own way.
If Truth Were A Woman

Suppose truth were a woman

whose lips of flaming fire
whisper eternal verities
with every soft, sweet breath.
Whose milky flesh curves
like the white hills of a new world
and lies in silken sheets of surrender.
Whose supple skin trembles under
the weight of roving hands
as they explore her sacred land
and plant in her a flag
of red, white and blue
and scream,
“Oh, America
You are mine at last.”

If truth were a woman,

we would trust no man.

Margaret

When I look at my sister now,

I think of the cursed wail
that emanated from her mouth.
I think of how the sound rippled
through my system like a gunshot,
How it tore through my t-shirt,
And plowed through the layers of my epidermis.
How it blasted through my newly developed breasts,
And fired past the tissues and the muscles
Strengthened by years of self defense.
I think of that gut wrenching noise
that managed to wedge itself between my ribs and pierce my lungs
Rendering me unable to scream out to stop him.

When I look at my sister now,

I smell the charcoal like odor
Of her little porcelain palm blistering and bubbling
As our father held it firmly above our gaslit stove.
The blue core of the flames scorching her skin like rays of sun.
I think of my mother’s sunken coal eyes,
glazed with shame and regret,
her spider-like veins wrapped around the frozen ice pack in her hand.
Standing wearily by in the corner of our kitchen.
When I look at my sister now,
I see her bright blue eyes, full of life
Shining just as they did when we were little.
And I watch her as she washes the head of her newborn child
with the mountainous terrain that has replaced her left hand.

July
Sweat soaked skin
enveloped in week old sheets,
Humidity sticking to the air
like gum to a table.
The scent of wet earth
flows through the windows
and down my throat,
through my lungs
into my bloodstream
wrapping itself
around the synapses of my brain.
The swirling blades above
thrust hot air my way,
each wave pushing me further
under the blanket of heat.
Tangled unfinished thoughts
rehearse midnight waltzes
dancing in time
to the locusts’ song of suffering
swaying to the beat of reminiscence
a yearning for summers past.
Summers of braided grass and imprints of
cement rubble on sunkissed shins.
of sugar coated dandelions ripped from the root
meant to adorn the head of a little queen with sea glass eyes.
That girl, her eyes,
could cool the heat of July.

Little Fires
Her month old hair, matted and sun bleached
Curls around the slender fingers of her left hand
A cigarette balanced in the right.
She watches him, watching it.
His enlarged pupils, eager and and attentive
Scan the roaring winds that scoop the highway
Of trucks with its destructive hand.
Smoke and newly fallen rain linger in the air
The eagles greatest hits locking lips with the static on the radio
And it was only 7pm.

They call themselves the storm chasers

Seeking out thrills, moments that mimic death.
They scour the earth for Mother Nature’s quarrels with God,
Humanity’s scariest hours
To put their lives in perspective.

So when lightning struck the picket fence

At quarter to nine in Oklahoma,
She turned to him and whispered
Knowing what comes next:
“I see little fires.”

Boating Trip
I was leaning off the side of the boat
my face turned towards the breeze,
The wind whipping my hair in every direction
striping my vision one strand at a time.
The muscles of my legs clenched and
ready for the battle between land and sea.

There was not much there,

in that corner of the world,
just murky waters and clouded skies,
flapping birds and round bellied men
drinking in the summer sun.

As I outstretched my arm
to feel the spray of the sea
an image came to me.
The hands of God and Adam,
reaching for each other
Do they ever touch?
Will I be touched?
Or remain stuck,
a tree permanently angled
by the storm,
hovering only inches
above the water.