Christine Kanownik




OH, sides, oh sides of

him, he is his own tomb, covered with

lilies and miracles. Saint and Angels! I saw him

I saw Alexander, in his tomb, covered

in honey and beeswax, playing small

guitars, covered in glitter and bars, but

his tomb is empty even when he

is in it. He is in the tomb. He is entering

and exiting the tomb simultaneously.

He sat on the tomb once. With the Saints beside

him. And your Anthony

sorry to say, is a mirage.

A saint that has no total. A saint

plus or minus another saint is still

one saint covered in riverwater

and gold dust. A child would drown

in this river, but a saint would

be the river. Be Alexander

resting on a snake bite. He knows his own

attractiveness. Even as a dead man.

I am afraid to speak to him. I hid in the

tomb but the tomb is a dead child

and I have never been comfortable

around children. The hanged man asks

three questions but we are too

tired to answer. So hang. So hang.

I may explain something about

Victory, but I must sleep first.

The body is resilient but only after

proper care and rest. So, goodnight!

Goodnight! But in the morning I cannot feel

my body. More like:

I am a piece of someone else’s body.