Pieta

Another close shave with annihilation.
I crept back into the closet,
closed it, returned to earth. The lies I spun
to survive—I’m still laughing
at the simple priest who absolved my sins
through the slats of his own safety cave.
Creation grovels out of agony,
never love. It chokes over, then unleashes
your name in kaleidoscopic spasms.
And it was the shapeless women who greeted
me against the mud-scented wind, bothering
the March garden, the monument, the parking lot
beside the cypresses . I followed them inside,
no memory of my façade, my slick pretending.
When the pieta commenced the constellations
cracked like glass and staggered apart. I heard
bloodthirst in the bellow of a coyote and,
because the full moon was neither a mystery
nor a portent, I galloped back to the beautiful boys
whose love brought me life while stealing my soul,
while God swiftly condemned the instincts
he himself threaded through my cells,
leaving me a heap limbs and whispers
buried beneath a measly sheet
of leaves, powerless as a mouse
against my raging nature.

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