I.

when the boy drawn to priesthood kissed me, his mouth burned.

with triple-layer onion skin and a crucifix tongue, he tumbled

down from a cloud at 9 and snapped his legs in half.

for six nights, the siren sounds bled into mourning.

II.

all great men are bound to fracture. when a bone twists into fury,

breathe sharply through your nose – three times like siren song –

and recall the scent of your mother’s perfume.

III.

we hang wet clothes in the closet in the habit of mistaking

good men for heroes. for so long, i have not had a hero.

my father stomachs the blow of scarred mouths and ambulance

bells. the boy cloaked in liturgy, his hands only build mountains.

IV.

if you overturn a single pebble, the river still streams.

when i tanned the rocks a golden brown – the sun shining

down on their jagged curvature – we sang the song of gentle sirens.

Bible pages blowing in the breeze, two legs healing from the

inside out, no more than lungs and feathers and laundry lines.