Never mind that
the frogs are singing and
they sing like a swing-set.
When the third eye opens,
it hurts. We were assigned
this ache and an axe on
the day of our birth.
A rusty length of days
to break apart. It is easier
to shut one eye than to
see your god disfigured,
done in, his nose running
gloss down his holy
face. Our father said stop
hitting yourself. And we tried
but we could not. His hand
was everywhere. We believe in
nothing but the clobbered.
The box of candy birds on
the table is a petrified sugar
psalm. Gash, gash. A human
heart is hard. Gash. It is also
spinning. Barstool eternal;
crazed seat; our own, saved.
What a word, he said.
Putting a finger to his hinges.

Bridget Talone