WEPT ALL DAY, DIDN’T KNOW WHY
Saints are those who do not live amongst the people.
When I first met a saint I placed it tenderly between
two halves of a sandwich & left it to the wolves. Suchly
did I observe that no animals came to eat it. At last
one deer pawed the sandwich & nibbled the bread.
Some birds came over to hold a slice up to the sky
like a banner announcing God’s glory. By this time
the saint was unclothed with its face in the dirt.
I felt sorry &
shut it back into its walnut shell. I whispered sweet
gospels. I made a proper burial for it on my tongue.
For a saint must die in its own language. Then
I was like, Okay, & drove home
in my imaginary vehicle splattered with bird droppings.
I became small from crying. A pulley system geared
until it snowed inside of me. Good grief I said. It was time
to bring my hands together over a woman’s body & worship.
Time to turn off all the faucets God had forgotten about.
Long is my journey to all the empty restaurants crammed into a walnut shell.
Irreversible is my decision to eat the browned defeated apple
on my way to the bathroom. Now nobody knows me. Not even God
knows me, He who pares his fingernails my whole life long.
Like the saints I will now be stingy with my love &
pave a road out of myself so it may be traveled by those
hungry for bread. Night, reckon us back into the original loom.
Braid our hair into the branches so we cannot move,
so we may be happy.
If you see a saint in the road please put it back.
Taisia Kitaiskaia was born in Russia and raised in America. Her poems and translations have appeared or are forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Smoking Glue Gun, A Riot of Perfume, Poetry International, and Narrative. She is an MFA candidate at the James A. Michener Center for Writers and also serves as oracle for the Ask Baba Yaga advice column.