To be hand fed papayas before sleep

...of pale, pale, tyrants

Boteros whose breast turns yellow in October and green in late May

Yet never matches the blue of their wilted irises

wiki says piercings

ought not complicate suckling 

turn all then to Theresas, mothers 

all that hangover, now wears a pale pink sari

just as easily beatified as besmeared it was on every side by a multicultural trace of ointments, creams

and feathers of that same strange bird which demands now more than just papayas

Searching for their very distinctive dung,

I part all layers off my pupal case

It’s the right season alright to wage war on a pierced heaven

which in return for our promise to worship it alone

spreads dung of its solemn feasts on

as many starving members

of the communion

modeled as a fixed unknown parameter