Marylin Schotland

My Favorite Saint is Sebastian

Two saints / one in Venice & the other in Rome / Martyrdom always sounded appealing to me / so here is an arrow for every time / I denied myself / I imagined all my missed / archery targets hitting the holy / contrapposto muscles / & accidentally tearing through / the skin like an old wound / Turns out I wasn’t Sebastian or Charles / but rather the sybarite in water / Antoine / Sainthood isn’t something you find dog-eared / in the collection of a teenager / looking for stigmata / where there should only be flowers  / I have always fletched with bloody fingertips / If I shoot straight, maybe I’ll drown in something marvelous like a fountain / or be plucked & have my entrails thrown in Jerusalem / I am older now / & know better not to / scream into the sky / A body isn’t / a body until / crows have eaten it / A body isn’t / a body / until  it’s gone.



the body next to mine in this bed
is not enough. in between the curled
up legs on one side, sit two men
who tell me

                        this is a croquet match.

the man in blue i call dream. he says
that to reach out with nails bitten to quick
sand, is not welcome. these things are
the dominion

                        of the historic.


the man in red with a beard and night cap
disagrees & says that a kiss between
two girls in a city of haze & glass would
be insignificant.
                        i call him migraine.


& tomorrow we will walk across the street
to a bakery & share sweet red bean buns;
laugh & joke as if nothing has changed.
& of course
                        nothing has.


a body that is mine & not my own
considers the press of teeth to pills that
surprise these men who talk too much.
i swallow their

                        half promises like the sun.