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Patchwork Mary
A lock of sweat-matted hair over one eye,
she shakes a red knuckled fist at a naked child,
wailing upon a cold floor.
Mary drying feet with her hair.
Mary at the temple calling.
A street corner Mary full of sperm,
full of a grace,
She is invisible to rabid dogs and drunks.
Old or young,
fat Mary on roller skates,
sweet Mary sucking candy,
badly handled, nameless Mary's.
Sweet Mother,
the sweet lure of jail baiters winking.
The bold-faced laughter
of the -you, free-thinking.
Today the sky is a Robin egg blue,
robed in virginal light.
In a Chick-fil-a, a family is praying
over their sandwiches.
I make the sign of the cross.
I mean, why not?
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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