coin tarnished
with what was a
sheaf of wheat worn
down to a dull silver pimple,
contagious pox ruptured in bloody
pus,

blood red sun,
the egyptian crop
withered in the field,
could it be the ox pulled
the four church walls down
leaving exposed the shell of
disgust, baring the ugly truth
where children are sacrificed for
the fleeting moment of sin, the selfish
fleeting moment of ruination that could
have been relieved of by hand, changing
the entire outcome,

and you,
my love, bedecked
in brown tunic took your
ox away from the brick rubbish,
threw your shoes into the pile, and
lit the match, knowing whose match
it was, whose fire in another century it
would vindicate, whose polygamy it cleansed,
and your own childhood rupture due its reckoning,

ash, the phoenix rises
from recycled remnants
of the past.

"where are your shoes - your ankles
show - Ancient Egypt's sun is aglow -"

Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist