St. John Leonardi

your ribs

are a delicate work.

I told you I loved you while

face down in a pile of leaves.

you curled up on

the sagging couch

and said no.

I gave you

everything in my lungs.

we both stopped

breathing and started

dreaming.

St. Simeon the Righteous

the moon slept like a baby

on the hips of the war.

behold a virgin may conceive

a thousand trees. they will

take root, ruin her chances

of a good education. a run

in these stockings is a load

off of my mind. the birches

are peeling and I will write

the psalms on their bark.

Our Lady of the Rosary

when I am not able to say anything at all,

I bury my face in these feathers and think

about how we used to pick ground pine.

our fingers were so red in the cold, sweaters

down past our knobby knees. there was a wagon,

a cooler full of apples and ice water.

grandpa owned 100 acres. I had the same gap

in my teeth as I have now. I used to be scared

of the creek and the trees that fell across it.

sometimes we found arrowheads in the mud.

I’d clean them off with the hem of my sleeves

and slip them into my pockets.

they would tumble out in the washing machine,

and clatter around in the metal tub.

St. Bruno (patron of trademarks)

there are ways to look into

all the eyes of a peacock--

to see the hills surrounding this city

for what they are--a heartbeat

a way to keep the time

fluid.

I cannot catch my breath.

this is a still-life.

the river stops flowing,

the stones sink deeper.

my lungs fill up

with storm.

Bl. Raymond of Capua

I learned the wounds of Christ

from the smooth holes

of a sand dollar.

I will hold this red balloon

over my head until

I find some answers.

There is a light in the closet.

I pull the string.

I heard that when you

get to heaven, you get all

your old dogs back.

St. Francis of Assisi (patron of animals & the environment)

there is a place where

the snow ends.

the orchids open up

slower than I’ve ever seen.

take a beating heart

and hush it.

here is a lung

full of heavy feathers.

the leaves have grown

black.

there are dinner plates

beneath the surface

of the ocean.

walking with you

is enough.

St. Gerard of Brogne

the garden is dark and I can’t remember how to dance. was it a two-step in the cabbage and

straight on ‘till the steps make sense? your hands are ghosts, your lips, ghosts.

I pulled all the tomatoes from the vine. I couldn’t see the red, so I stained my white

skirt. this evening is a two way street and I’m driving blind. Everything

I thought I knew about roots came out in the wash.