The Return of Miss Hypatia Leigh

Hearts beating like a crow’s wings on a cemetery gate
take leaps of Faith®—little pills over precipice edges
led and swallowed by gridiron cages like overpriced
murders, allowed to crawl out only when they’ve made a call
to the gods; outfitted in white clouds like pharmacists, all
flittering to roam, eager to grind lovers’ bones to taste.

Littering tombs, a waiting room’s monument to bad taste
crashes through; elephantine denial pries open gates,
marching-in her silent miseries, sailing past us all.
Society’s impatience alienates to edges
pages of doctored documents listing who is on call:
midnight watchmen flocking to stockpile on their overpriced

flames fallen apostles caught living off-guard; overpriced
hearts guilty of gnostical operations to make taste
better what all scriptural men of old tended to call
the one-and-only—the holiest—Key to Heaven’s Gate.
Circular arguments prick fingers; having no edges,
they somehow still grind and saw through truth’s marrow, spilling all

onto her lap; bubbling seed to conceive once and for all
her return from the East, Miss Hypatia Leigh: overpriced
call girl-cum-priestess, summoned from the underworld’s edges
to introduce our dead to the life-giving after-taste
which enters a soul’s mouth in a silent kiss. Aggregate
rubble tumbles to earth as iron fists bury their call

in our mistress’ stomach; stonewalled like a bar’s last call,
Miss Hypatia Leigh opens the ground, laying down for all
her troubled boys and heroines a round of Golden Gate.
Immortality which, for them, once seemed so overpriced
now floods in; flowing from her hands for all her damned to taste,
as if the Dutch boy putting his finger in the dyke’s edges

caused heaven itself to swell, bursting its appendages.
Her rain coming to its end, fated to sate them, will call
from their slumber all women and men wanting just-a-taste
of the medicine they were given pre-scripture, when all
was not yet tinctured with nomenclature and overpriced.
Driving in, she fingers the lock, shocking open the gate;

‘Heresy,’ she chimes, is the death knell ringing still inside you all;
deafening only if you let it silence—overpriced
cost of our defiance for us stars who open the gate.