The Bitter Saints

bitter snow angels lomo ort

Bitter Saints

The bitter saints
come, one after one, and slip their miracles
under her door.

The bitter saints dream
their heads into her lap
and talk babytalk with god

whispering into her belly button
their odes
to that phantom foetus,

the savior
they can not father
that can never be born.

Icons of crow time,
hunger artists,
the bitter saints famish away

lauding the tedium of their appetites.
To each starvling effigy
she bequeaths a feast day,

salts each sanctified tongue with her savor,
and makes an angel
on parched lips

like a child
beating wings
into snow.


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