magdalene and i are huddled together
in a blanket, re.marking how a brush leaves bruises..
she divines the sins and outs of my addictions::
and how i told her i felt stoned.
that within the residue of oil and water
on a slick of angels, i outlined an image
of translucent lips that once said prayers
and meant them, before they found that hope created
pain among the poppies, flowerdust of faith as small as seeds. .
magdalene says
i should have blended my edges more.
i told her i felt stained. and without the constraints
of wood and canvas, i carved the intangibilities of me
using nothing but nails and tears that came,
again and again, making love to the inanimate darkness,
pretending black was nothing but a string of moonstones
to hurl down my skin, to grate out the sin,
where primrose presses against paint.
magdalene says
i should have scraped away my boundaries.
magdalene says
i should have known better than to make myself
out of only agony.. . .
agony can only forms saints, she says.
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