St. Christopher
by Ron Wallace



Beneath a quarter moon, tilted
to spill its white light
down on the ruined shingles
of a July night,
I see Saint Christoper dancing
___between brown breasts,
moving to music made
by singing springs of iron
in a house
where no one lives anymore.

I watch the fallen moonlight
glisten in beads of sweat
like diamonds
___around your slender neck,
teased by a spill of ringlets
as we lie on sheets of white linen
___the blue eyes
of your grandmother’s Christ,
surveying guilt from an antique print,
hanging on a bedroom wall.
Yet I feel no remorse
___when you roll over,
onto me once more,
and pin your traveling saint between
our hearts again.






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