Martha Clarkson

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Baptism, of a sort
 
 
Be led by a swish of vestment to blackened passage, walls canting in.
An unmapped sanctum, smell of old bibles.
 
Far from worship, your zipper parted like a sea. Young
helpless hipbones communed in unsteady canon.
 
Bake hot as hellfire for life. Spend your manhood skewered
onto the end of a pitchfork.
 
Lie down alone to cool, if possible,
but unable to stay still with your impossibilities.
 
Drive your flaming body to the church parking lot.
Kill yourself and leave a note why.
 
Vows will be considered
broken.

 

 

 

Deceptions
 
You come home so late
I can’t recognize
the hour,
the economy
of your footstep
on every other stair
as if the odd stairs
are all that could wake me.
 
You bring to bed
new smell of jasmine
expect me
to believe you changed
air fresheners in the car.
 
When we talk
your voice is as sharp
as foil in a filling
but we talk less
than before our lives
like library books
dusty, overdue.