Holy fulfillment sought in the nakedness of a woman dancing on a rain-washed roof. It’s she who makes us cry at night, it’s she who makes our March bulletproof. The snake curls up the serpent’s staff only to be held by a man designed by her recipe. He holds an ode to her soul at mass. It’s her image that chants in feverish, dying eyes to relax. The mad hear her through the opiates filling their veins— pulling the rotting teeth from black gums, so pleased to be insane as evidenced by sweet hums. Old, forgotten, weathered souls too stubborn to kick the chair and hang— she gives them a final say before putting out the flame. I have never seen her on that roof dancing like I’ve been told, but I’ve stone-cold shot a man just because. I’ll hang my head low for many a year— but let me die drenched in forgotten time, get her out of my mind while I still have a pale horse saddled to ride.