by Jessica Otto
If she were alive
her name would be Aureate Lion,
Sun-Beast-Rampaging-
Down-Latitudinal-Lines.
On this Saint’s Day
she shines gold,
windows open and flaunting;
she scrawls escapist vulgarity
down the tomb cover tracks.
The masonry cracks against her
and a monument
in the shape of a griffin
topples,
wings broken.
Without hesitation she dives
into the tunnel, pounding
the bones of clergymen
as if she could cut away
the gangrene on the hind legs
of the city.
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