An entire flock of Italian widows
in black curtains prays for me
daily. The lambs in the butcher shop
window look like upside down
chairs stacked on tables. The best
I can do is remember particulars.
I fear they are inventing fake saints
because nobody dies on a rail
of arrow fire in a waxen mantle
surrounded by poison bears just for
the sake of a few hundred women
without husbands. If the bird
in the rafters is mildly exotic, we’ll
watch it. If we fear the paper bag
of pistachios is regenerating
itself in the bottom creases, we stop
sharing. The current rage is a sweet
sixteen party with edible globes
and all attendees in powdered wigs.
My cousin got a build your own
bog in her stocking. My other cousin
got a diorama of the coliseum.
When you live in a buck-tooth house
with only the newest magazines,
something akin to fire rides the circuits.
You might find yourself in a chariot.
Photo by: Norman Finnimore, Meat Trade Historian
