Cristina J. Baptista: Monster

Where the cut has dried over,
you find red crystals in your hair;
like colored sugar from a child’s cupcake,
lost Valentine glitter, crushed
stained glass beneath your heel
in the monastery.  I first saw
you outlined against that window, triptych,
you blotting out San Sebastian’s image
all mass and shadow, an absorbent dark sponge,
stealing his wings for your own.


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