Fade to Dissolve

Fade to Dissolve

But it was somewhere
in under the lawn
that she buried St. Francis —
she said for good luck,
but I thought it was spite.

All the same, the way his
plastic feet protruded
up into my dreams
well, it wasn’t a lucky thing
and I’d wake up screaming quietly.

This house is silent now,
the stubborn saint
still lying in plastic solemnity,
even as I bake cookies
singing aloud, self-consciously.

(c) 1999 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved.



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