Swallowed be thy name

On my tartan picnic blanket

we sat in the residual heat

of August sun,

and waited for dog owners to leave.

We stoked our fire

of twigs and husk,

and by the time our shadows were long

I was under

your swinging rosary.

The arms of trees extended like a priest’s to the sky and the

heavens opened.

I still wonder what it meant;

as you put your tights back on and I saw your

disappointment.

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