Clean Smiles
Rapture pours through your mouth in a smile
set to burn a crucifix below my milky
skin and though my feet are smoldering the path
to seaplane flames
the priest finds a way to bless me first
before Christ hands me off to monks hiding spiders in their nails.
Before my mother begged “Bless me, bless us all,”
I reminded her: Blessings are no better than soil burnt and blended with ash anymore.
Before curtains crash folds of velvet
into the wicked waiting, a penalty buried
beneath dirt, beneath virgin foot stampings,
weaves a fabric silk of worms tight around my bust and ribcage.
And while the lighthouse guides
the postcards sent by sinking bodies to the shore,
Judas and baby Jesus cackle,
silently concealing their game of cards.
The trick has always been on you.
Salvation has a price-tag,
inching apocalyptic,
for that seeping melatonin and gold leaf paper,
the bible has never looked so lovely
next to your brow burning,
but no matter how long I polish your bones,
they’ll never shine like diamonds
or God’s glitter teeth.
Take me to the father: show him my fears like cuticles bleeding for faith
and if you really are an angel, lick my scars and watch them glow clean, ruby hot,
a color unfamiliar in the sky made of lapis.
