portion of artwork for Mary Caldwell-Kane's poems

The Beginning of Over
Mary Caldwell-Kane

A quick-grabbed peck over the morning Times
brought on a savage flicker,
hurtling across bodies of water,
up seven imperfect stairs,
across our whitewashed porch,
slapping kitchen glass like cardinal flesh
(in that splitting second, even the cicadas allowed for a moment of silence).

Save me.

I was reading about Kokura,
and how it was meant to take the hit,
the weather report sparing lucky asses.

You were in such a hurry to miss me this day.
Where is the fire? I asked.

Seems I never received the bulletin,
our beautiful cathedral blown away by flying Christians.
Me, without an umbrella.

Were we just outlines burnt to stained glass?

Remember when you grabbed and conquered my writhing beauty?
I was your newfound crucifix, a fisherman's find.
Remember how in the Holiday Inn bed you licked my skin exclaiming over table salt?

Why is it a funny miracle to be seasoned with what we abandon so freely?

I call myself a humanist,
squeezing Darwin between chrome gills.
Like I give a shit about man.

Here’s a careless prayer for a cloud mass near you.

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