by Kate Arden

Artwork; “Fretwell” by Sloane Adler

Dormant Catholicism
put to rest,
as no child can be
The reformation didn’t mind you.
Next week is shaping
up to look a lot like last,
and this week
You can’t remember
the last time you
A clouded winter,
that novel,
and rustling promises.
Or sleep,
you regard it
with a religious terror.
Yearning for a brief
brush with God,
hate the way you tremble and pull back to reality.
You have not been truly awake
or truly asleep
in years.
You are in constant limbo,
dragged by gravity in both directions,
a draining and elusive state of disbeing.
Or him.
His comfortable anonymity.
His blank verse and seasick vision
of tomorrow.
Night is falling,
your brain bleeds into the inked sky.
A soft and tapered quietus.
You can’t remember the last time you worshiped anything.
What you wouldn’t give for that
kind of madness.

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