gelid pews

we feast: 

taco pie, 

hazelnut-soy-latte (iced),

white wine with dangling fruits,

chive-French-fries con ranch,

butter, butterflies.

I wear old-and-dirty clothes, eat chips, like I’m young enough to die, but I’ll do it anyways.

Two chairs rock,

wobble to-and-fro

like God himself sits and chews tobacco.

Rine and dine, fine wine.

Single women in tight get-ups, how must the sun come up over lumps and forest-fires inside chests, inside—low-key like.

Synonym: modest. 

I ain’t no moderate woman, I’ll show you what I’ve got.

Except it’s too cold. A gelid winter morning. It makes one change their ways. 

Give me death by a sultry swelter and clammy hands, holes for palms, 

and maybe I’ll unearth seraphim. 

loosely after Christian Wiman’s style 

Published by celinamcmanus

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