LotS: Lives of the Saints

[Photo by Greta Perleberg]

Lives of the Saints

Mango for breakfast, organ-sweet and heavy.
Mountain-posed behind the register, spine
pulling like a plate hanger, bra straps unseen
around my elbows, I await the breath
of a building before entry, the pranayama
of unreasonable questions. While these people are here
I will love them. I will give them knowledge and hope
in pain. And if I roll my eyes after no matter.
At home I thank the veal for its lonely life.
And after, his hand resting on the anvil of my belly,
he tells me they miss me at my old job and I laugh
against his palm. This consciousness, this
wholeness, I think, is what they felt:

The saint is a beggar, living off overstock.
The saint is a scholar, reading in bed past sleep.
The saint is a lover, with God as her skin.
The saint is a storyteller, smoothing down visions.
The saint is a flower, turning her face.
The saint is a warrior, when love draws blood.