The Patron Saint of Unaccountable Muses

Poetry

She was throttled and hung

when hope died

for the second time.

No one stayed around for her

resurrection, no one

watched her catch a crow mid

flight, stick two fingers down

its throat and pop her eyeball

out of its broken beak.

Last I heard she moved

into an alley off Capitol Street.

She feeds the stray cats slightly

green slices off her right

arm and passes out cigarettes

to the working girls.