St. Eve in Exile 

Here amid a field of light
You say my name.

And I am not she
the girl You called Your own.

My mouth a cavern.
My chest an empty cave.

I am dry and dusty.
I am not wet or well.

Not the riverbed of love
You shaped me to be,

wide as a delta,
deep as any mine-

ful of diamonds,
not this common coal,

my birthstone, my rock
of heavy longing.

I am black with it
where You would have me white.

Ever a disappointment,
I grew breasts

where you shaped me straight and smooth,
spoke when you asked for a song,

agreed where you hoped
I would exceed,

climb out of the hole
You dug for me,

place where You planted
me in the dark

among creatures
who never knew my name.

You cut me in two.
I take half the blame.

— Angela Alaimo O'Donnell, author of Saint Sinatra

All poems, art, and photos are public domain or used by permission of author or publisher. 
Claudia Olivos

Art by Claudia Olivos

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The lively Angela Alaimo O'Donnell treats us to poetic thoughts on Red, in Poet, Where Did You Get that Red?
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