St. Adele

all these women

frozen solid

on the vine.

they curve up

the spine of our roof,

in and around

the windowsills,

and down the creases

of our stairs.

I’ve never seen

so many eyes

so grey, so many fingers

with white knuckles.

I’ve asked each

and every one

if they would like

a bath drawn.

they stare straight

on till morning.

not a word.

St. John of Kanty (patron of Poland)

rock me like

an empty swing.

the only place

I’ve ever lost

my teeth is in

this pond.

love is murky.

I found it

limping

somewhere

in this cold.

I had forgotten

what it feels like

to fall on the ice,

to bruise my shins,

to come home to a bed

full of smoke.

St. Chaeremon

this is what I know

of the city:

you turn a corner

with the snow

coming at you

sideways

and there you are.

now you can break

into an angry thing.

start a little fire

from old silks

in the bungalow

of your lungs.

St. Peter Canisius (patron of the Catholic Press & Germany)

I treated you right

only to find an empty spot

on the right side of the bed.

I fell apart

underwater.

all I could find

were tiny graves

for all of the dead stars.

St. Dominic of Silos (patron against rabies)

your hair pitted its gold

against the shortest day

of the year.

the moon was so full

that it spilled over

the highway.

all of our cars

stuck in the light

as if it were honey.

we floated towards

each other as if

we were teenage hands

fumbling under seats

at the movies.

Bl. Urban V

the goldfish floated like silk

at the top of their tank.

you were asleep

in a coral pink

oversized chair, so

I retired to the bath.

once out of my clothes,

I stepped in quietly,

disappeared below

the milky surface.

the vineyards on

the other side

of the glass

are encased in ice.

the winter

swallowed

them whole.

St. Gatianus of Tours

(a found/erasure poem)

sprung from the grottos

in the cliff,

a winding staircase

in the latest taste.

explore its recesses.

sacred niches of rock

will give you an impression

if you cannot do without one.

They have been dealt with

as the Catholic church deals

with most of such places today;

polished and furnished up;

labelled and ticketed,

edited, with notes like an old book.

The afternoon was lovely,

and it was flushing to a close.

The large garden stretched,

blooming with fruit and wine

and succulent vegetables,

and beyond it flowed the shining river.

The air was still, the shadows

were full of memories,

most of which might pass for virtuous