Anglo Golgotha

By Alejandro Villa Vasquez

Her eyes creaked open

heavy with fever.

To the place of phantasms.

To the spirited world that never was,

never, never, found anywhere.

To the world, she leaves that which

cowed her.

To bed, she said.

But that woman left out the window

floating like the first breath of sleep.

Now the saint drifts

rowing toward a whitening uncertainity.

It’s not a crook in

the oven, it is the

free form from war and womanhood.

In the gas coffin, in the cemetery of green stones and pastel grasses, the

saint is swept off,

To that someplace or other, possible cure

or possible nothing.

The sun already peaking, the only witness.

A milky corpse of buttered bread.

Children squirm in sleep, the cord severing between them.

To the woman: lives away from your parting

gifts, swaddled;


in the breaking light

the tired mourning.

Kaylee WarrenComment