The memory disease is tiny,
Born on the wind like pollen,
pus scented.
One inhale from frail lungs,
and the disease enters like a rockstar.
Makes its way through the splendid cavern
that is the body,
til it reaches the brain
I wear a veil over my hair
to conceal my secrets.
What is sacred is veiled.
The Tabernacle.
The woman.
Beneath a mirror sky
Daughter upon daughter dances.
The meek and the bold
Both drowned in the Flood.
Sometimes,
In my dreams,
A gigantic wave towers over me,
Watches me,
Waits for the right moment to come
crashing down.
I wake to the sounds of
A deceitful beach.
Same dream for 10 years.
One day the sea will ensnare me.
I veil the sun,
Bar graphs,
Music.
The seagulls on this beach
hunt whales.
The sun,
Jealous of my youth,
Paints me the texture of old age.
What is Holy will be revealed
at the Emerald throne.
The greenery gets a vote.
In the old shed I call girlhood,
a slingshot and a rock.
Mother Mary was sighted
at the Thanksgiving parade.
Prayer settles on me like dust.
I cough half remembered scripture.
At the seashore,
a locket with a picture of
myself
(A red dictionary of moods),
and Christ
(A fisher of Men).
Miniature Moon 