Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

Kathleen Geyer


Virginia sat upon a throne of marbles, the ones that bruise the knuckles playing wringer with her Father, and she sits mute for hours with the smell of buttercups clinging to her hair like tendrils of sunshine, holding to her chest the self-sewn doll, lumpy with cancer or care that smells of smokey incense from spending the night alone in the tabernacle being God- touched. Her Father chides her for tainting the Body when she hides in the dark cupboard because the Latin hymns sound like Devil chanting.