Capital's End Idol

At the convergence of moon and cigarette light
stained on the nursery room floor
blessed us the miracle of Our Saint of Godly Death

She was fresh out of a dirtwash apartment
where her chair scarred the floor
and silver and rust bugs squirmed around
this moneysick organism, belching her out
like a blood-cough or a fever
rushing her to the hospital across liquid hazard shellings
and bombed out blood-stenched complexes
she was an unnatural case
a faggotboy to the doctors but a war patient nonetheless
so they gripped her belly and examined it
an effeminized Atlas bearing a seedbed of unknown potential

Her Knightess and She-Warrior Champion
stood at her side, holding her hands in alien warmth
as the masked drone doctors gave the warning
of imminent arrival
a slow motion haze of guttural screams
turing tester polaroids capturing her fleeting seconds
(tick) (flash)
(whirr)
and for a second, a blackout
a bloody drip drooled across and off the hard bed
and lying on a blackening puddle
a greying idol of flesh, curled up and holy

Holding it in sacrilegious contempt
its pale trash-stone skin stretched over vinyl bones
holding together birdcage ribs
and contorting into a sandpaper face
taut and emaciated, it sat with a peaceful expression
with nary a stain of blood or sweat, all rolling off
into the primordial viscera soaking their feet

Awake in enlightenment, the Saint reached for the idol
holding it in her hands as its skin, hard and flaky,
unfurled and cracked off its fruit
and on its map of dry veins and clogged pores
was inscribed its holy communication with God, reading -
NONE OF US WANT TO BE HERE

And with her Knightess at her side the Saint
was born again, her holy touch and gentle smile
a blessing spreading throughout the world
across hospital rooms, here at capital’s end
thousands of idols touched by God’s grace

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3/2022