Tiny Saints

by Spencer Wollan

​

Saint of the internal rebellion /

Witch of the southern state.

I scratched at the exit

of my mothers womb until she bled out

and they had to start digging.

Oh god, and now?

I’ve been such a burden on my heart.

Been vibrating since the moment

I noticed that she somehow survived it.

Found her floating above the blasphemy

begging to be fed by hand

or given a tiny bag of sweets

or granted asylum into the country

of whatever never shatters /

into the landscape of whatever

is the opposite of having to try

and instead i just said,

Call me tomorrow morning.

Today is tomorrow’s slave

and we can’t live here forever.

The heart is never wrong

but a muscle always fails

at some point.

A long time ago, I was very small.

And the smallness still lives here.