Up and down the pews,
wrinkled and bathed in orange oil,
Little, thick limbs like posts in a
white picket fence
A caravan of gypsy laughter
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
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.