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Dawn throws its light in a
swarm of flies outside my window.  I lie, hair loosed
on the pillow, the whisper of a man’s hands
far away.  I feel he should lift my nightgown,
expose the voices
who grind red earth with their chance.
Christmas won’t be the same, not when
the sun looms high in February
and the flies drop their wings
on the porch, a glow I catch with my hands
and press to my chest:
the chanting bodies, the upraised hands,
the piano pounding and fingers pointing
at me, the last one to wear blue jeans
and make the sign of the cross
before they carry me to their altar
and lay a pale sheet over my head
as airy as webbed wings, the pillow, the silence
in the church, the warm cupped glow
in my fingers.

Robin Dawn Hudechek

(Previously published in Caliban 8)