last night st. lucy came
to my door & knocked three times.
the mother the daughter 
& the holy bedpost that i use 
as a rosary. 
running out of veneration, 
she sat at my desk chair,
placing each scented-candle of
her crown on the end table. 
rose & cream & patchouli & lavender. 
i asked her what she was
doing here so far from decemeber
& she put a finger to my mouth.
her eyes looking up from the golden 
plate, unblinking. white grape. 
for broken vows
& pagan boys we never loved. 
for the stained glass
on the brothel walls
we made a curtain. she told
me of bundles of wood
& fire that only women know.
she danced her fingers 
over flame to demonstrate.
i stuck out my tongue,
the taste her ember as 
sweet wine. eyeball in her 
palm she fed me,
yes both eyes, off the plate.
juice down my neck,
across my collar bones. 
she asked for my confessions,
turning them into pastries 
on her plate. tea cakes
& macaroons. the powdered 
sugar on our lips.
we will take this all
to the catacombs.
Diocletian, a statue outside
the window. he's dead now,
we know. but a man is 
always a statue left somewhere.
i asked her if her
eyes would grow back
& already there
was another pair.
blue & lucid.