saint

In the way

of all martyrs,

you invite me to dance,

backslide in a cycle

of earth. I grow

accustomed

to your chant,

swaying tassel,

incense laden hoodie,

the prestidigitation

of my wolves and sparrows.

Your belt holds the key
to the sacred ballroom,
grotto of my continual
waxing and waning.

I dig up your coffin

with my hands, fill my nails

with the marrow

of spring, chip

a piece of your bone

for a relic.

Tess Kincaid

May 2011