(When Francis Rose was 17)


Dear God,

Airplanes fly out of your nose down onto earth. Airplanes are not angels. My angel puts me to sleep. I try to be kind and not alienate her because I love my sleep. I love you and my father. My father bitches about the jokers in congress. He says to me you are beautiful, don't cry, change the oil in your car. He calls and says many things to me over the course of a week because he is nervous and likes to talk. You don't say anything. I dream your kind father finger strum out the beat of my heart, rubbing my neck so I sleep easier. People run through black nights with gouged out eyes looking for you. My father and I love and forsake and love again. Did you teach us that? People hand you their eye balls saying My Lord, love me again. And I guess you do love them again. You say my precious child and strum their heart beat for them. Your love is strange and that's why there are many different things on this earth. Your strange love is everything.




Love,
F. Rose

Francis Rose's grief
Francis Rose's letters to God from when she was:
[14] [14] [15] [15] [16] [16] [16] [17] [17] [18] [18] [18] [20] [21] [21] [22]



rain and frying meat
old corsages and underpants
It is snowing
people with soft lives want time
the sestina
the sestina's introduction
brittle, cluttered sentences
airplanes are not angels
people talk in fluttering prayers
please don't be a mirror
thin webbing
sodder the minutes together
fields torn off of a green sun
the sky burns with stars
Tractus Love-cannibalism
Francis Rose's sweater drawer