Rage Vow

By Cesca Janece Waterfield

Hang a wreath on my maiden door, pubic-black and furled,
a bough to say someone has passed over. Bury her pleats
and sweet sestinas among spring narcissus, and if you recall
the flush, soft breast that slipped free in primeval joy,

do not depend on the moon of her aureole now.
There are idiots here, whirling under Mother Ginger’s skirt.
They affirm life on a pedestal proportionately placed
between an embowelment station and a crematory. They stomp

down marbled halls with whirligigs and gee-haws scrawled Freedom,
but their whirring gadgets bear no discernible resemblance
to values their buyers hold up in skidding headlights
of their cognitive discord. I too wear the tag, Idiot, which translates

into French as d’Idiot, but still means you either pump your fist
and squawk, Sin! when the queer cashier gets shit-canned
or you scoop up your piddly change and hurry home
to a lukewarm drip of plans to stand up tomorrow, afraid

of being branded angry woman, pushed from her place
in the rank and file with tickets for tyranny and all-you-can-eat.
Lose that lottery and no more triple axle, 9 miles a gallon.
So I kept writing down forgive and om and sweet Jesus,

can I just get a Pap smear? But I swear, when I meet the proselyte
who stands at the ash heap of books and ideals to witness
there’s nothing left to burn and nothing fit for life, I will strike
a match for the animal, ignitable soul.

Cesca Janece Waterfield received an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English from McNeese State University. Her fiction and poetry have been published or are forthcoming in journals including Foliate Oak, Blue Collar Review, Deep South Magazine, Inkt|art and more.

Photo credit: Keith Ellwood via a Creative Commons license.