A Sign of the Cross

As I try to catch you

the wind howls and the single

tulip in my garden stashes its lie again.

Maybe you are just rash to guise

your clotted contemplation, hanging in

turn to cat-fall and hydrate.

But, Father, I am left thirsty —

by all means the sum of designing

you when I am left with myself.

Then she got jealous and burned

holes in my arms, shoved cigarettes

up my nose under the kitchen’s

undecided light.

Weren't you a witness?

Were you mired in fog while the

sun tried to run away?

Instead, let’s make this trade:

My insubordination for your existence.

No, that’s all wrong.

It’s best to accept the cremation of

a thousand villains and heroes whose

purpose was to have a purpose,

finding that the cracks in the catacombs

just needed bandaids

to hide what’s inside:

Dust. Just plain dust.