With our eating meat on a Friday in Lent, we sinned. Our picnic of cheese and beef by the pond. Cheap wine, unseasoned sex, fingers without rings, we sinned. The day was lost to fat clouds, the tracing of freckles, and the inspection of terra cotta shards. His hair sprang under my touch. The news was bad; we declined to pay attention. Art took precedence; the spells of turtles, the curves of monkey tails took us further away from clocks and the bombardment of bus schedules. It was the humidity we craved, the smell of heat rising from wet rocks. The green of it all. When our sin was born, we named her Cortes and wrapped her in soft, over-washed thrift shop sheets patterned in 5-pointed smiling stars. Raised on the eggs of exotic birds, her eyes told of flight and unwinnable wars. She never cried. Now, she practices our religion, though warned against it. She holds us responsible for nothing, holds nothing against us. Not even our inability to find comfortable shoes for her clay feet.
Currently in her second term as Poet Laureate of New Bedford, Massachusetts, author and playwright Patricia Gomes and has been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies. A 2018 and 2008 Pushcart Prize nominee, Ms. Gomes recent publications include Star*Line, Muddy River Review, Rituals, Alien Buddha Press and Apex and Abyss.