Mary Cradles Moldering Fruit

The westward road sears
the sand in your lungs
to fragments of glass.
Swords and men lay
under horses beneath flies,
and there are legions
of the cross in God’s city,
lesions on his gospel,
but no holy land,
your salvation a hair shirt.
This well water desiccates
a foreign tongue,
and cardamom winds scour
skin that longs for lavender.
You think to murmur
away dessert shades
into pale breasts
unacquainted with suffering,
but the farther you ride
from Him to Her,
the heavier the scent
of moldering fruit.

Amy Kotthaus


Amy Kotthaus is a writer, translator, painter, and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, Haiku Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gnarled Oak, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Ground Fresh Thursday, Crab Fat Magazine, Quantum Fairy Tales, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Digging Through the Fat.

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