Of wives and mothers

The audibility of my thoughts 
is evident only to you, thank god –

centesimos dropped in a tin cup, the cry 
of a wandering albatross. Within the herd, 

the rumbling bellies of cows keep time 
to Easter bells, force us gladly 

towards this anti-evangelical asylum, 
this space we coinhabit. Here, we value

the red burn of an astronomer’s candle 
over the reassurance of pre-programming, 

know the centuries will shed light 
on every exhaustion, every purple 

noncommittal nightmare. At the gate of women, 
I could do without, but you’ve offered 

a jaw’s atheism, an id’s beach, 
the open palm of myself. 

Next - James Owens

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