Emily

Emily—you float on like a phantom



through the halls, between the walls



like an electric Buddha,



drifting passively inches over the ancient ground.



You are a phantasmagoric eidolon,



with amputated limbs and sallow skin,



anemic prodigy.



Shrouded by stained glass, submerged in holy water



they think you are at war with god,



tagged with schizophrenia, italicized and hushed



the irony is that every morning you sit in god’s kitchen,



drinking her herbal tea



you walk through her ambrosial gardens



and converse softly with cadaverous sparrows.



I imagine the perfect silence of the casket interior



Achromatic bones, split at the skull



Immaculate nun dress veils the absence of skin



You are done.