Poetry

Rest well, Linda, of the teased, peroxided hair

if this is how you treat your friends

I am always imploring you to tell me, beloved, if you have left me forever?

I’d hear Mom groan, The Messiah, again?

a son hot from the womb
but cold to his kiss

One world more than our wounds have earned.

​​​​​​​There are roses in the thorny crown, pick them!

Here, now, the furled leaves bid adieu

you could’ve chosen to be ignorant
to the demand that such a recognition
may’ve placed on your limbs,

And the power that buys our freedom?
The power to inflict death in our name.