Sin
She is beautiful
Her body a canvas
Painful art needled in
Under her freckled ginger skin
She is reverent
Sacraments of coffee dispensed
Clouds of smoke
Carry prayers up to the sky
She is loving
Unlucky though in love
The curse of the broken picker.
She is blessed
Not knocked up by skinny peckers
Of skinny car salesmen
With skinny moustaches
Her tubes tied
The chapter closed
Her legs open
I won’t say what else she is,
But I’ll say something
That says it.
None of her children
Under her roof
Her oldest was baptised
As a latter day saint
A church that makes it a sin
To get tattoos
To smoke cigarettes
To drink coffee.
A church where women go to hell
If they can’t find a good man,
And it doesn’t surprise me
That I’m not the only one
Who wants to get as far
The hell away from her
As is humanly possible.
