The Patron Saint of LostBoys

by Alison Myers

Ale Matei

A thimble and arrow, the red arch of bird of paradise and leaves so waxy they rival the plastic ones in the dining room: these boys have sorries for everyone and everything else (and I was a thing).

Martyred with words, each success, their own finding, shot from a shaft, or close enough to stab, or a stone, maybe another shovel of earth or tide higher, and now I’ve become only ears and a nursemaid, giving and taking sacraments only eating my own body and my own blood, mistaking it for Eucharist and becoming a cannibal instead.

You threw a rock through the cathedral window for evidence of divine justice — does it exist?

You are cruel just to be punished, and the only sports you love are the ones with intentional injury: Devil’s Advocate is your preference.

I am not your mother or your lover. I am a bird.

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Alison Myers teaches high school English by day and yoga by night. She lives in “Coastal Philadelphia” (New Jersey) with her husband, two dogs, and an overgrown garden. Her work has appeared in Ender’s World, SWWIM Every Day, and with great weather for MEDIA.