Rosaries versus ovaries.
Coathangers high in screamed freedom
Scratching against a sea of muttered prayers.
Her PVC-platform boots march with
towering studded spikes,
Announcing the Midnight Queen.
Her feral purple mop adds bravado
to their glares.
Yet, bending through the arms of anarchy.
A girl of the darkness,
A girl of the light.
Lourdes is her birthright,
Faith bursting up like Mary’s name in Neon lights,
Glow-in-the-dark Jesus studs her beads.
Mystified mutterers meet her
A warrior of St Michael’s ilk.
A liminal lady,
A being of the in-between.
Stubby black fingernails gleaming, she kneels among them, serene,
Head up.
Fishnets peeking out.
Straddling womanhood and goth clubs and novenas
and quiet simple prayers
for those who are not there.
Rosaries and ovaries
She has both.
