By Kristi Wallace
i know my life is nothing
a cube windowless i
am the willing whore unpaid
unseen relegated to dirt-floor corporate cabins
waiting for acrid regret to seep
through narrow vents
choke me to sleep
aunt eleanor knows i
am a worthless liar
julian of norwich’s rotten sprout
a chord less, off-key anchorite
who skips then careens back
and forth one side of the
Veil to the other then back
under my bushel
basket
close and airless i fear these moses
reeds will float it downriver
my brother is dead
the snow in
Denver is uncaring casual
all of them are there under the canopy
polite heartfelt paid in full so sorry
so non-denominational no swingin’ low
in this chapel
poesy belongs to folks who bathe
i am foul i stink of critique
an imposter’s imposter a purple crayon
scribbler an unsolicited informer and a
backsliding unreliable selfish witness
now my brother is dead
and damned i may yet be
but i did see them put him in the
ground yes i saw yes yes i was there
the world does not want me but i am
daughter of abraham
afraid to say no doctor salve will soothe
this one child of el shaddai
unorphaned ember of the unnamed One
now i must cry mercy
i was named for the christ
embarrassed and shamed of my humanity
i cry for mercy i know i do not deserve
my brother is dead and i did see his body
to the ground yes i did yes i was there
burn the bushel basket
i say burn the bushel basket
lord
burn this bushel basket
and leave
me in peace and
unbound