halo

set your glass on the table,
i want it to leave a ring, a halo.
when you leave i'll trace my finger
around it till it hums like the rim
of a crystal glass. i'll take
the spatula from the counter &
peel it off. thin & airy. a bracelet
a bracket. new rings for a new
planet not so much like saturn.
quieter & the size of an apple
or, if we're ambitious, a watermelon.
you trace me like this, in circles.
a pink chalk outline.
a ring around the rosary. i'm falling
down in a pile of pillows, 
ll of which remind me that i am 
a circular being. that each body 
has a circumference. when you sleep
i take out the measuring tape
to account for yours. your waist, 
35 inches. when i wear
the halo no one notices besides
the people who make 
stained glass windows. they 
ask me if i'm  a saint &
if i am, if i'm a martyr. i don't
answer. i let them glue the glass
into place. the window 
to the bedroom now a kaleidoscope murmur.
i want more. i want more halos.
i get a glass of water before bed,
fill it in the bathroom sink.
i use the stepping stool. 
my mother lingers in the doorway.
the acolyte. the halos hung
out on the clothes line & from
coat hangers in the closet. 
i was as careful with them as 
i was with my first pairs 
of panties. frills & sex. 
the color red.
if she catches you she'll throw
them away. use the jewelry box.
all alone i sometimes
lay the halos on my chest. i feel
their movement. they are mischevious
ghosts. they ask about slashing 
bike tires &
snapping plastic crowns. 
where does god come in? no,
he just lets halos happen. 
you could call me a deist. 
they tell me to orbit you, 
i do i do. closer?
not a comet. a mouth gag
a blind fold. your mouth 
a wonderful halo that i want 
to fall into. oh rosary,
each bead as the teeth.
a hail mary, a halo for
mary. i'm here to keep us holy.
i put the halo on your head
& play with your hair.