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Rosenkreuz: Cooper Renner
Pope Benedict Loves the Little Children
Jessica Dyer
In the alley and stumbling around the pavement’s split pores,
there is ash everywhere. Fine as baby powder, mounds.
We, pagan and pale as mother moon, are drunk on the urine
of soon-to-be celestial babies. Ash with flecks of sunshine and shit
cropdust us as we drink in this new doctrine. Christ’s vicar sent
Limbo to bed with no dinner for bad behavior. Gold encrusted and soggy,
haloed by the faithful, flying heavenward into the arms of pious mothers,
babies surround us. Like a scriptural plague, accidents and cousins
brighten and block city lights, street signs. We take up our crosses
and search for heavenly treasures.
As the roofs collapse at the sound of my dead aunt whizzing past,
I fall, skin my shins. I wonder what God thinks of all this.
Jessica Dyer is a poet and journalist, and she likes to sip hot coffee and read books.
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