a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Holly Allen
Sunday Mass

Up and down the pews,
wrinkled and bathed in orange oil,
Little, thick limbs like posts in a
white picket fence
thread circles.

A caravan of gypsy laughter
Squeezed
Into flushed cheeks and air.

Late April, we stare
From the peeling paint and
The haughty height of our steeple
At the baby, unknown to itself.
Sitting rigid in tight linen and
cologne heavy with falsehoods we
weather angry interruptions.

Romans 13:13 in monotone.

The child frees itself from its
taffeta prison and grasps
at sunshine.



Holly Eva Genevieve Allen has had previous poetry published with Susurrus literary journal, Black Book Press, and Suzerain Publications. She has a bachelor's degree in English and Linguistics from the University of California and is currently working on furthering her education. In her spare time she enjoys playing chess, cooking Italian food, and reading books by Carson McCullers and Haruki Murakami.
 

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