Blood runs down my legs
like wine from the soil of sheflesh
pouring the subtext of crucified
into a jar in the pantry
labeled “patriarchy”

voices rise in songs of
well-wrought wounds
sprouting in open rooms.
We are all Mothers of God
in fragments of light
to new eyes of ill-begotten wonder,
the sacred confusion
of sex and death and birth
bedded in petals of easter lilies
is the ever-violent necessity of love.

This shard shrine reflection has
the adolescent flush of guileless lust—
We are the walking memories of the earth
its broken beauties,
the ghostly songs of
forgotten fathers in the
unmentionable folds of purple,
of mingled blood and piss and tears.


Andrea Thornton: "There's not much to say really. I am a Catholic convert and a professional chaplain trying to do my part to heal the wounds on the soul. Most of these wounds are the result of some poor fool's failure to see beauty, opting instead to impose its will on others. Religion itself has suffered too much use to such ends. I write poems because they are useless, and the world needs to practice beholding useless things."