Again, more of a draft than anything...

Claire’s Book About Saints


last week her mother tried to take it away
after Claire carpeted the kitchen
with broken milk glasses
and walked barefoot
trying to rid herself of those thoughts:

the visions of the spotted dogs
how they sigh and sit on her lap
all warm fur and sexy dog breath
their tongues on her neck
as if she were covered in honey

the devil, she has read, is mysterious
she knows he means to trick her
with this affection, this cloud of pleasure

St. Dorothy, the book tells her,
was tempted by a talking cherry tree,
walked on water after she cut off her breasts
with a seamstress’s scissors

St. Catherine got stuck on a carnival wheel
after 200 rounds the Virgin appeared
led her up the golden stairs
while her broken body whirled below

St. Rachel decided the devil spoke in pastries
lived for a hundred days on only goat’s milk
near the end roses bloomed on her wrists, her ankles
in Spain a little chapel keeps the sheets from her bed
women who want to be thin kiss the stitching

Claire wonders why it has to hurt so much
the shining birds with their sharp beaks
how the Virgin appears in a ball of light
so bright Claire cringes
even the irises’ perfume makes her nauseous, sometimes

and the dogs’ fur is so soft
their ribs hot and inviting her touch