Kathleen Sullivan Isaacson
Up the hills,
along the streets of Martyrs,
men who are women who are whores
are posed
in a wax museum parade.
They have taken the tarnished
gold back
from all the saints' altars
to place it
on their eyes and ears,
their lips
and on their lively stone sturdy feet.
They rue
that St. Denis carried his head
so far away.
The sky is grey,
a tombstone new to its grave.
It is as still as cemetery statues
whose arms are taped
with flowers
and whose skin will turn
the green
that only rain can give
while they wait for mothers,
beloveds and tired tourists.
The red lips
added by the living
to these blanket soft faces
make the paleness blank
as closed lid sunlight.