Chrysalis

The solace sought

The shape of you

sacred, etched

on decrepit walls

held vagrants to the ground,

native loss recalled

and sung.

My virtue then was ashes.

On my back, a massacre.

Tattered reticence, my peace

my feeble sacraments:

***

To bathe in holy water

still dappled with your loam

to dare your taste of earth;

and make her death our own

to flourish in the dissolution

of apples into dust.

***

We were formed of shit and bruises

to sing of skin and marching,

our swollen lips and bellies fly

to consecrate loose seeds.

There I found my fluent tongue

in a veil of foreign skin,

plucked it bleeding

on the vine,

and forgot my Christian name.