Letters to Thomas James

Image courtesy of Kelly Sikkema (@kellysikkema) on Unsplash.

I

In January we slowly battered your head

against a monastery wall

until your eyes gently bled

The snow sank in wine, bruised flesh 

as the Amphibians frozen in lakes

rinsed in blood of fresh scraping  

Life slowly drained, 

after hammering rusted nails

Then, we lifted your head high

and licked your freckles clean.

II

Underground grottos,

soft candles of 

grass, grains, and seeds 

scorch the 

wrinkled heels 

of many saints,

Purple veils covering their

silver tresses,

Rustle in the wind of prayers

For the chronical ache of breasts

And feet

Inside this blissful façade,

I cross my breast with 

sweet, juvenile remorse 

as I slowly unearth the 

tomb beneath the 

altar 

I think of you 

as a mouthful of 

Rosary beads and stirring 

Nausea 

In an arousal of sudden 

Nativity

my belly swells

mouth opens slightly 

as you walk out of this tomb 

Pulsing sweetly 

Beneath my skin.