by jenny ljungqvist
You spied mold in the corner of the cracked ceiling above you
The black stain in that moment became the eye of God
And while that man thrust laboriously, feverishly
His sweat dripped onto your powdered skin
Streaking your cheeks like tears.
She showed me his immolated corpse.
The skin was the charred black of overcooked New York Strip
And she had used nail-polish remover as the accelerant.
The smell of burnt hair and bone
Was cleansing somehow, though I couldnâ€™t tell you why.
Drops of blood appeared on on the bathroom tile
The perfect circles quickly becoming smeared by grappling bodies
From the rape that colonized your flesh.
The red stain in that moment became the blood of Christ
And God was silent for you just as he was for Him.
When a hand is soaked in acetone, it doesnâ€™t feel wet at all, but bone-dry.
This is what she thought about as the conflagrant display roared around her.
The meticulous nail-care required of her and other quotidian annexations.
The blazing corona in that moment became the crown of the Virgin
Who stood in the threshold, and smiled.