Dear Saint Theresa,
 
 
You were doctor: I doctor
Myself. I doctorly decorum.
Was there a day you chose
to reach into your core
and make it new? I feel the beating
Heart of beating pain, beating me
Alive. Is there anything else
to remind you of life-love? I ate fig
and tried. Sweetness, oh life, etc.
In reality, people are sweeter
than they seem on internet. All
feet. And mouths. And speak, opening
day up. I forgot I could stand
Up in a room and pronounce still.
Myself. I forgot the art. Shier than before,
I accept it. Like going to school first
Time, learning to speak. Okay so this
is pedagogical. I made
promise to get better.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Dear Saint Theresa,
 
 
How can you be
in pain for years
on end without
End? I didn’t Know
I strove
to seek to strove—
to dove. The doves
beckoned. No, they didn’t
idiot. You don’t even
know words for birds.
You wouldn’t even
know a bird for a word.
You wouldn’t talk
to a bird. You wouldn’t
talk to anyone
about anything. But then
again, who is good enough
to hear things? Not
I. I wouldn’t expect anyone
to get me at an airport,
I wouldn’t expect someone
to find me worth a car.
I wouldn’t expect you to pull
a Toyota out of a garage
to pull me into its backseat.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
KATHERINE FRANCO is a writer and artist. You can find her words and images published by Pilot Press, SPAM zine, and the Oxford Review of Books, among other places. She is an MSt student in English at the University of Oxford.