god who bloodies knuckles
He never saw mother superior before
a girl tripped playing red rover, and he was sent—
ascending stairs, like rosary beads,
hesitating, praying, climbing.
Inside her office, a thick mahogany desk—
small deities sprawled like crocus on a casket.
She unleashed the crucifix from her neck
to strike his outstretched hands.
He doesn’t go by Michael anymore.
I’m not an angel. I’m a man, he says.
I leave him on his park bench
watching iguanas on river rocks—
their thin-skinned bodies soaking in light.
Kendall graduated from the University of Tampa’s Creative Writing M.F.A. program and currently teaches writing at Florida International University in Miami. Her recent poetry can be viewed in Anti-Heroin Chic, Zvona i Nari, and Driftwood Press.