crystalline echos 
of webs run jagged
collapsing against the face 
of what history wrought. 

winds stripping flesh:
the immolate cries 
at a thousand stakes
freed from the old mortar 
churned under one hundred years 
by the twisting abuse of saints.

you'll know me 
by the raw and torn:
by the salted splines 
of feathers shorn 
bristling under embers 
and by ire 

you'll know m...

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splintered saints 
laced with dentene words 
all pearly white
Like the gates made 
of the bones of slain fae
in the conquest nobody talks about 
in bibles, beloved

but really they're just pocket protectors:
drivers of us snake-folk,
catchers of miraculous stray bullets,
and the low fruit of cherries picked
held up on high-- 
higher even than the lichens
that broke the sacred rocks 
...

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