St. Stanislaus (patron of Poland & moral order)

this reminds me

of the moon and I.

it rummages around

in the morning storm.

it remains afterwards.

this wind turns the leaves

upside down and I can see

their underthings.

in case you were wondering,

they are not covered in lace.

Bl. Edward Jones

I lugged the chair to the top of the stairs

even though it was full of rain. I dropped it

from our attic window. I was stunned

by the sound it made when it hit the ground.

It was full of tiny rabbit bones.

I destroyed a nest, a home, a bundle

of new life. Those little eyes saw nothing

but the underside of paisley. My heart is

tangled thread with a hidden silver pistol.

I do not deserve to pray.

St. Hilary of Arles

you said my cheeks were hydrangeas

and that’s why you wanted me.

I licked my fingers and held them

up to the sun until they burned.

what glistens is mine. this is like that time

when I decided to go. like the time

you found the lilacs of someone else’s

neck. I told myself that bad things happen

to good people. There was nothing left

to do but burst into a morning glory.

Forty Martyrs of England and Wales

I went to the grocery store

and grabbed those little orange

globes and rolled them down

the aisles.

A sprig of asparagus in my teeth,

a leaf of lettuce as a fascinator.

Apples fill out the curves

in my shirt, while fiddlehead

ferns are earrings.

I handled the strawberries

one by one.

I put them in my pockets,

walked outside and squeezed

all those little ballooned hearts.

Saints Philip and James (patrons of hatters & pastry chefs)

you take a bite out of my bed

as if it were a pink cake, as if

it were something to be eaten.

the frosting can’t withstand

this heat. I can’t keep it looped

up in tiny peaks, like mountains

like clouds we brought home.

I feed the tadpoles in the bowl

on the counter nothing but

the sugar that puddles on the floor.

...will they ever grow legs? will they

question this life as much as I do?

will they live long enough

to ask?

St. Athanasius

I have stacks of books you told me

to read. I balance plates and teacups

on their woven frames, these tiny

uneven cities.

I will never get to their words.

I eat my poached eggs, drink my

black coffee and stare at the stacks,

prop my feet up.

They have a light that sneaks out

from between the pages as I sleep.

I wonder what you’re trying

to tell me.

Joseph the Worker (patron of 8 billion things)

oh, who knew what these muscles

can do? they are formidable fruits,

rotting at their own pace.

those calluses are the deserts

of your hands, the downfall

of your skin when it tries to be

so gentle.

how many fluttering bats

have you swallowed today?

you keep your mouth open

when you sleep, you know.

just let ‘em fly right in.