star e. rose

I meet with the young priest after Mass.He is black, shaves his head, lifts weights;his pinkies could splinter every weedywine-stained curb along NE Alberta. Outside, over peppermint tea and the fifty-degree windsbattering a JUST SAY NO banner, he fretsover modern cinema’s excess-cultureof nudity and futility and creative blasphemy.“Have you ever seen Last Year at Marienbad?” I shake my head. The wind absorbsthe receding slivers of tea-steam. I used to lovethis weather. The dab of lavender I’ve smeared into my scarfdoes nothing for my nerves. I am mash-lipped, jittering in rhythm to the flapping flag overhead. I am sickof myself. I … Continue reading star e. rose