our lady of pity,
pretty can wait
I’m the sonna non grata
coming loudly

listen to god
and temper
what do you
feel poor?

it’s warm only
when it doesn’t matter
I am fed up on
being a lost plum
rotten in its sweet
its sticky when
wet and
Crazy On You

the poem is forgiving
of faux pas
and unbecoming
it forgives me
for thirst
and yearning

a fervent girl resolved
that two glances count
as lust so I stare
for confirmation
at passersby
for pretty
I’m sorry