I created you from clay.
My Golgotha of shit,
excrement of sinners and
fallen saints who slipped off
pearl horses, fell through clouds
of purgatory and petals.
I cast a spell about you,
moonshine and gravestone.
When you awoke, your eyes
crossed like death. Horseflies
came by your face but you
did nothing to swat them away.
They swarmed you, bathed you in
their hairless legs and honey pot eyes.
The moon shone from the window,
an orb of light on your face. It sang you
something only night could understand.
A loon’s lullaby too loud and unsettling,
I heard the animals tap their nails on windows,
crescents of claws that prayed to you.
I couldn’t stop the fecal tracks outside
my doorstep, or the torch lights burning
in the distance. I never saw pitchforks
or scythes bent and rusted, but the
hangman’s noose flown like a flag
over the poppies of their heads.
The villagers didn’t appreciate you.
You were holier than a monk, or
the nun who bent brass bars to
seduce that monk. I found you fertilized,
charred black, and lumped in a mound
by the green of the hillside.
You weren’t born from my belly, but
I found you.
Deep rot in dung, deep
inside the cavern of my hand.