St. Francis, October 4, 2019
If I were you, I’d be dead by now, or dying. Dead or dying without a tenth of the madness you brought into this world to craze the rest of us too fond of lifeless resting. The day you walked naked out of a silk inheritance was the birth of a shameless polygamy that still makes our prudish hearts blush white. All the taboos and fearful intermarriage rules went out a window opened forever now to the explosive entrance of joyful mourning doves. No one but you— your flesh a living flattery of bloody imitation— has better grasped the final agony of chainsawed elephants. When I watch you weave daisies into Clare’s loose curls I want to shake your pierced hand in appreciation for its signs of love so tenderly spoken.
Caroline Maloney
Posted at 02:54h, 07 JanuaryWow! Your new St. Francis poem really twisted my mind around! Thank you! But the second last verse has me really wondering what is meant! Loved the last stanza!
Michelle Mahoney
Posted at 06:18h, 07 JanuaryWOW! Thank you, Greg!
Peter Bisson
Posted at 22:43h, 07 JanuaryThank you Greg!!