flowers for Antigone

at the root of motherhood
the dawn of civilization
how could I have mistaken
God for my father and cut the
throat of the Magdalene?

the burden of the sky is to bear no defense against
the weavers of treachery,
words are pulp fiction
and pronounced in syllables
with the accent on denials,

recruit the marching flowers with the sing-song of
the drum, its rhythm a temple in an oasis where
priests fornicate with their sinless prayers
and the wealthy masturbate with spoils of ill-begotten gain

lockstep and closed, never to open the scent that is
compassion flowering as if there was a Sophoclean play where
heroes live forever
and the only villains found are in villanelles,
the only good poet is a dead one for her words
shall long be inspired.