A Poet

Tightly packaged in my warm skin
a mesh of skeletons searches a catacomb of corpses for Eden.
Orange parasols, inside my timeless catafalque,
spin over the heads of pilgrims under the guillotine.
Sheol lingers inside a fragile flask,
a vessel witnessing the vivid Paradise it cannot catch.

No one thought to light a candle for the living
or to stamp the Pope’s emblem on indulgences for Purgatory herself.
Blake and his Tyger must have known…

I weigh my skeletons in Eliot’s coffee spoons
while voices ask Eve if Adam is also inside
my cesspool, snaking his way down the gutter veins,
or if Muir ever set his other foot in Eden.

The skeleton of Judas mutely reminds me of my ancient sins.
In every moment salvation slips from my reach
and from those strapped to pillories within.
Embowered in transgression I am imprisoned
in my conundrum of skeletons,
while wondering…
Should I say a prayer for Jesus?

– Intuitive Ginger

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