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The Secrets of the World are Wrapped in Silence (#8-Crone?)


I want to feel the emotion in the
Secret prayers of the bent woman with
Throbbing eyelids,
Dowager uncoiling rickety bones,
Stretching stubborn joints
Extended obstinate serpent spine until fingers
Searching for the love promised by this
White Jesus,
White for history scorns swarthy ancestry,
Obliterates contributions of the tawny woman, ebony man,
Strokes White Christ’s face with a hand long clawed by arthritis,
Feeble.

Long abandoned lips
Kiss His bleached feet
Kiss with weary heart while
Lifeless eyes of the saints
Draped in false piety,
Stare down hawk noses
From high perches, false thrones, into the silent void
Look beyond the crone, yet
Pass judgment on her odorous, threadbare rags
Holes exposing filthy skin
Flesh rotting from nights exposed to cold winds
Blowing over the frozen lake
Winds collecting ice daggers on the journey
Flaying her humanity while she
Slept in a cardboard box dreaming,
Longing for the warmth of human touch.

Little do they know she was once an angel,
A land bound siren
Bejeweled with gold rings and strings of milky pearls
Attired in rainbows woven from spider silk,
That would flutter silently in her wake, a
Flag demanding homage from the wolves with tongues dripping lust
Fixated on the wiggle of her ass
Until it faded into empty history.

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