From the desk of
FRANCES-MARIE COKE
From the desk of
FRANCES-MARIE COKE
by Frances-Marie Coke
In the words of
FRANCES-MARIE COKE
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Once more I tiptoe down the aisle
of chandeliers (their lustre lost a while ago)
encumbered with a decade’s dust
of fireflies’ wings interred in rust.
Cobwebs line the angels’ wings
above a loft where no one sings,
and silence lingers, waiting
for your hand to wave it on
and free the war in me.
The kneeling pads have thinned,
and I have come to tell you I have sinned
again; that I have lost the way
I walked with you; that daily I betray
your crown of thorns. Flesh presides
and spirit keels.
Sawdust rupturing its eyes, an incense-drunken
moth beats wildly at the shrunken
mesh that stretched across my face
once, when I could pray. In this dry place,
the scarab crawls.
You ask too much of me. I sip the gall but will not touch
the hem of your untainted garb.
Rising From my wasted knees, I inch without conviction
to my sin, drowning your reflection
in stained glass. At my touch,
The metal hinges crack.
The scorched wings flutter at my back.
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