The Town’s Patron Saint Asks

Katie Hibner

                                                               The town’s patron saint asks,


Why the bruises on your foreheads— isn’t it Ash Wednesday?

and falls off the ark of our pansy faces.


The mayor just pooh-poohs her as a space case,

swigging milk with his mashed pocket squares,


so we swarm the firewall

protecting their phagocyte.


We heehaw around it in our goatskins

and conjure a yule-bomb.


Our foreheads are “bruised,”

but our necks are anointed—


these marshmallow torcs are our floaties to Valhalla.




Features
Interviews
Nonfiction
Poetry
Fiction