J e n n i f e r M a r t e l l i
I am like a woman who believes the sun
is nothing less than a god
riding his chariot across the sky.
That woman would rip out your heart with a dull
flint knife on an altar.
She would remain a virgin if that’s what was required.
All my men were scary beautiful
until they weren’t,
and then all I could be was kind.
Like a nurse, caring nothing for demons,
calling death death
keeping you calm until the end