Tonight's Poet Corner: St. Patrick Doesn't Live On Mars

St. Patrick Doesn't Live On Mars
by Belinda Roddie

Sitting atop a Catholic spire,
I try to paint the sky white
with my fingers. I want to erase
all the color so I can see
clear to outer space,

out where a lovely lady sits
in a spaceship and carries a Bible
with no God, but wow, does it preach
love, love, love.

I cough and wince as my spittle
flies. I hate that I spray rainbows
everywhere. Just walking downtown,

I leave neon footprints on the
dark, cracked asphalt. I want to

find a radio and tune it to just
the right station, where my alien
paramour waits to communicate,
her language mingling beautifully
with mine, eventually sounding
alike and meaning the same thing:
Love, love, love.

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