Another Virginal Silence

Another Virginal Silence


I do not believe 
in the Name of the Father.
I believe in you, who tosses 
and whisks my woods
when praying on my body.

I prefer to celebrate 
this slow euthanasia
with sweat-laden body 
and exorbitant eyes
on a meadow of radioactive stars,
beheaded mallards on my lap.

You dreamed the schism of the saints
the mystery of hermaphrodite wreckfish.
the Virgin of the dunes 
and vinegar 
for wandering antelopes.
When I see you sleep,
night perfumes herself with oranges.