(Thanksgiving, when she was fifteen)
Dear God,

It is snowing. Here I am by myself, sleepy. The world is made of wet bark and yellow leaves. I swim through cold night looking for you. So did the pilgrims. The pilgrims didn't smile because you took their hearts. Give them back. You gave them fire instead. How will that help? The bland pumpkin pies and deadly winters and left over sea sickness. You gave me a fat sloppy heart so I smile all the time. I smile because I am not ashes. I smile because leaves are burning into the dour air. I dream about sleeping sheep and cities. You love me. I give you back cracked love. I am not a sheep or an angel or ashes. I give you back cracked love and you take it because you have no choice. Swimming through a snowy fall night, I will find you. Even with the bald fault lines of my love I have you. You forgive me.




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