Popsicle Apostate
another incidental dessert poem
Popsicle Apostate I read the joke on the sodden wood stick; The joke? Your trauma is ordinary, Ordinal to the holy nail quickening The blood of Christ, the caught fritillary Species that is not some Nabokov blue, But dun and grey and common as ice pops, Pinned to the wax of a summer’s accrue Of ordinary injustices, lopped Off like heads of hinds in a paneled hall. My lips drip sugar and red dye forty; Like a portico angel, my footfall Announces nothing coming but the sortie Of wasps at the garbage can, go ahead Noli me tangere; the dead stay dead.
(you’ll notice this is a sonnet— catch me soon with another one at The Sonneteer)


Off like heads of hinds in a paneled hall. Excellent