(actually likenesses show her pretty happy; she is matron saint
of the mentally ill...)
weeds neglected
dirt smeared on concrete molding
smudges of blood mixed in
no one can guess their source
the question lost to the failing faith
of the previous century
the image, hunched, recoiling
as if from a gaggle of marauding geese
as if life itself had become a burden
air and the sun, curses, crosses
on her face
a fleck of an impish grin
breaking through an awful grimace
an ounce of grace
rained on her perpetually-breaking heart
