In the Pews

There is something sadistic and untimely in the puppeteer who draws the lines under my eyes
and with the gesture of the hand,
forces me to cry.
but at least she details the subtle pathos of the soft skin under the eye,
in the wale-like bulges of each diminutive vein that rise
like a loose thread
in the yeast of a soft bruise bread.
my cheekbones lick up the tears like a wolf to its own spew
and i run my tongue around the silver cross on a chain,
my tears, these unholy waters, bring prayers to every place but the pews.
the lips part and the skin reddens, like an allergy to its own sorrow,
the eyes fall as the flames go softer, softer, softer
and the artist kneels at the altar, alone, and prays for tomorrow.

-anna sluder

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