Mildew odor rivers run by green grass stubble weed
grovel toward twigs shade.
The coolness of the ragged dipped porch is her home,
she falls with tight braids hair pinned
in a rousing circle of white hope.
The sun rests on pictures of dead husbands
on the wooden yellow unlimbered walls.
While she waits under a picture of Jesus walking on water.
And curves her lips‚ edges to meet the sun drifting down.
Blue eyes faded topaz on the barren hills.
Flame self heal communion Jesus Lord.
Smile when you meet her;
dismiss fallen teeth between hollow stripped mined gums;
forget the rancidness of old people in wall thin rooms.
Plastic window coverings flap like banshees.
Worn bible lamentations lie quietly, abomination is alive.
She must alter the path of death.
She must sweep the floor with endless movements of sand.
Sing to her. Give her delicacies—Moon Pies—melt in her mouth
circles of Moon Pies,
chocolate creamy on her spitless tongue.
Marshmallow graham cracker heavens
with crunch prayers in tin foil wrap.
Her skin, a wrinkled foiled veined covering,
like scratchy tar roofs that leak.
When she stands faith filled hollow walker
legs bowed, she is Jesus’s child.
His angel brushes a graham cracker crumb
from the pink of her lip.
The Drawn by White Horse Moon
pulls the darkness, hides her youth from the screaming window shade.
And morning flashes light up her eyes,
a field of faded peonies aflame in a dried riverbed.
Chocolate crumbs on her finger our communion.
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