by Bill Yarrow
She shouldn't have trusted her townhome
to the apple-shaped developer because now look:
she's got ants with white wings in her cabinets.
“Oh, my God!” she shrieks from her apron.
You need a hug, he tells her and opens
his arms. She declines the embrace.
“You're not Jesus, you know, no matter
how much you think you want to be.”
All rights reserved.
This poem appeared in PoetsArtists, collaboration issue.
Thanks, Didi Menendez.
Thanks, Timothy Smith for original accompanying art.
This poem appears in Blasphemer (Lit Fest Press 2015).