Manchester

May 31, 2017

Beauty makes its own brief
of the face fixed in death’s kiln:
the dancing laugh, the eyebrows
raised in wonder, the snaggle-toothed
grin of the daddy’s girl.

“Oblivion is no end,”
some say. It is deliverance
or respite from a churning maw.
Yet they cry for those for whom
the horror has receded.

“I will show the world I am
because I feel so deeply.”

I am so sick of holiness;
and your smiling monks beatific,
smug in the love of some mad god
who tests with atrocity
and cracks the bones of little girls.

I pray this — that they may be
atomized beyond time and light,
blown into the wordless stuff
unreachable by mumbled words
or the chants of T.V. padres.


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