Amy Thatcher
—
The Assumption of the Virgin into Heaven
It was easier than she thought, crashing the car
named after a horse, brakes shaking like good
dishes––their furious clatter in the cabinet all “thou shalt not”
until Christmas, appearing each year like a cat dragging
a mauled feather stole through the living room.
No one notices the blur on her shoulder,
the slight upwelling of skin blooming beneath her veil.
There is only her imperfect body––
economized into numb silence, a point of light
over the doughy sky, suck of cells
into the splintered fingers of God.
Someone on the ground signing the familiar––
immortal as anything on earth.
Rick James in the Garden of Eden
God said Rick James, so Eve became
her own exit, leaving petals
in the maze in case of rapture.
What was she thinking? It was hard
to remember. Like everything else,
lust becomes inexact, buried
in leather. There were no more seeds
in wait, no drink in the well, no deceit
of greater ascension. Rick James separated
light from darkness, parted skies
and knees–– genesised all over the place,
arms snaked in gold.
When no one was around, the Lord forgave
Eve her tresspasses. Go, God said to her,
onto the glitter and grind of them.
Amy Thatcher is a native Philadelphian where she works as a public librarian. Her poems have been published in Guesthouse, Tidings of Magpies, and forthcoming in Rhino.
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