saints

the african marigold's melt in the sun
orange burning black like hot plastic
dad asks how they're doing from
3000 miles away. it is the last thing
he is permitted to nurture in his son's life
who unexpectedly and audaciously became
a man, marrying and moving across the country.

everything warns against attempting sainthood.
the saint's irrefutable soul is alien to
this world. many diseases rise to the skin.
persistently misunderstanding the logic of man
until no other conclusion can be drawn than
to be shot with arrows
he voluntarily strays into a fragmented wood
of renunciation and illuminating morbidity.
conclusions chime as bells of light
around the edges of his eyesight.
he climbs new sierras of pain
and he is on no journey but to climb higher

his head is a golden apple and his heart
belongs in a dog. later eras will pray to it
for now it's on loan and wrapped
in a fast-food sack on the dashboard
of a late-80s econoline.
most are saints.
none are beatified.
A seizure lifts him
and he is gently eviscerated
by the stars
halo melting to his scalp