Evita

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sliced tender lips, symmetrical, dark
in her tome, light in decisive plucking
upright in depths unknown, tethered on
chords of sadness, she needs liquid
to quench fears, needle and thread
to erase a second smile while she
plays such beautiful dreams
spun of golden strands and
coated tears, hemlock laced
ritual breathing for the unfaithful
hemmed in at the seams, brought low
with metallic angels to carry her
aloft in black robes and scythes
outcry of her children to echo
in the streets, littered with the forlorn
favored of lovers, for freedom, oppressed
by vision shinning down from above,
twin suns wilting good intentions
melting lives like wax aflame in winter
teardrops flood the streets
with bovine madness and martyr’s embrace

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