Sister Mary Zion

daffodils made an
insignificant penumbra;
nobody coughed up roses.

she melted gilded lilies
and shot gift horses like steer.

calling Athena a common whore,
she chose sackcloth and a sweaty habit;
she said that silk felt like burlap
on the unholies of her flesh;
the bosom-splinters from the unvarnished cross
felt fine.

believing in belief and happily ever after,
her cloister closed in.

maybe she believed in the golden city;
we only saw terra swallow her bones.