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Citric Vespers

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I spied her genuflection at the foot of her bed

Each dusk and every dawn

The waxy dresser top littered prayer cards

The legal tender of relief

St. Peregrine patron of cancer

Your lip sync smudges the foot of god

The robe numbs the touch of

“The Wonder Worker”

With the emptiness of myths.

St. Monica, patroness of mothers

Your shoulders unfit to bear maternity

The aged brow of sorrows

Framed by the veil of devotion

Makes misery a contrived hope

Her grip wilts each amulet

Coated with a lackluster vinyl

Impervious to finger prints.

I laid her memorial card

In the shade of her pillow.

Comments (1)

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This poem truly appeals to the senses. I felt as if I could touch and feel and see all those things.

Brandon_Hennen
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