St. Sebastian Considers a Self-Portrait
I opened her mouth. I measured out sins in stones and caught souls like arrows. I made her see. I had a sword, and I cried out to kings from the doorway. But this, this is salvation. Death and then death again. Limbs bound to limbs. Something broken by the club of the old gods. Everything that spills out onto the ground, everything that stains the straight stones of culture. This is deliverance. Would you like to know what I remember? I remember the tree, scarred and sullen. I remember my thighs, soldier’s legs. I remember the cobblestones of Rome. Swollen wrists. Broken skull. 78 stones. Catacombs. What else should I recall? Doesn’t the light shine from the bloodiest corners of heaven? Redemption is a smile with sharp teeth. Grace is a blade with no grip.
Pessimistic Honeybee
After awhile, every
flower smells the same,
like every worker
who came before
and every worker
that comes after,
and like our own two wings.
What is the value of loyalty?
Of keeping busy?
It can be measured
in wax and dust,
in stolen sugar.
A work ethic defined
by monarchy and
the waggle dance.
A life defined
from cell to sting
A single cell to occupy.
And there are mites
on the children
and drones with
bad wings.
When the colony
collapses, who
will be surprised
except the queen
and the keeper?
I opened her mouth. I measured out sins in stones and caught souls like arrows. I made her see. I had a sword, and I cried out to kings from the doorway. But this, this is salvation. Death and then death again. Limbs bound to limbs. Something broken by the club of the old gods. Everything that spills out onto the ground, everything that stains the straight stones of culture. This is deliverance. Would you like to know what I remember? I remember the tree, scarred and sullen. I remember my thighs, soldier’s legs. I remember the cobblestones of Rome. Swollen wrists. Broken skull. 78 stones. Catacombs. What else should I recall? Doesn’t the light shine from the bloodiest corners of heaven? Redemption is a smile with sharp teeth. Grace is a blade with no grip.
Pessimistic Honeybee
After awhile, every
flower smells the same,
like every worker
who came before
and every worker
that comes after,
and like our own two wings.
What is the value of loyalty?
Of keeping busy?
It can be measured
in wax and dust,
in stolen sugar.
A work ethic defined
by monarchy and
the waggle dance.
A life defined
from cell to sting
A single cell to occupy.
And there are mites
on the children
and drones with
bad wings.
When the colony
collapses, who
will be surprised
except the queen
and the keeper?
