from Apocrypha

a dream of burial at Via Nomentana

January 21, 1957. Agnes wakes
to icy floors, exhales

vapor from her lips. Last
night, she sewed an altar

cloth, dreamt of Roman
boys burned blind by gusts

of sand, by visions of black
lambs and white, tender

thighs. Her mother burns
incense on formica

countertops, slices hearts
of palm, something

red, her spine bent beneath
a green shirtwaist. Agnes

offers her a cheek, rubs
salt into a paper cut,

makes the sign
of the cross inside

the kitchen
doorframe, her

bracelets clanking
like broken fetters.