Saint
In the way
of all martyrs,
you invite me to dance,
backslide in a cycle
of earth. I grow
accustomed
to your chant,
swaying tassel,
incense laden hoodie,
the prestidigitation
of my wolves and sparrows.
Your belt holds the key
to the sacred ballroom,
grotto of my continual
waxing and waning.
I dig up your coffin
with my hands, fill my nails
with the marrow
of spring, chip
a piece of your bone
for a relic.
Tess Kincaid
May 2011
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 65
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