Sermons in Blood

She flaunts her paradox. In lingering colors. Close enough she whispers to herself. As the moon lurches into to her orbit. A fairy tale. In broken English. A love story in curls of chocolate. I can taste so sweetly what has happened. So bitterly what never will.

I find the road in my blindness. I can feel the traffic in my fingertips. The rush. Strangers on their journeys. Monsters under my bed. Trying on their people faces.

The grim of the stories blossoming. In petrified totems. Her toes on the ladder. As the ceiling comes into focus.

Dead things on the wall solving the conundrum. Going with the wolf. Ravaging the picnic basket. Dead girls on grandmother's porch. In pretty dresses. Big fangs in her bed. Biting down hard.