Moons of Lucy

Moons of Lucy

Lucy used to share the sky with diamonds,
lifted by hallucinogens
that cast her in cubic zirconium light.
Lucy, carried on the backs of five white Beatles
singing yesterday as if we'd never catch up with today.
Beatles, black scarabs
That pulled her up further
after she was pulled
from the ground she was pulled from
pulled from her Mother's land
our Mother's land
and we became her faithless children.

So how is it, then, that Lucy used to worship here
millions of millennia ago
centuries ago,
no, decades ago
though she was seen here the day
before yesterday
okay, earlier today
before the sun crawled up the ladder
behind the horizon
and her moon sunk its face
into darkness that looked like water
much like one of those tortured ships -
but these I'll not speak of
I'll not speak of
because Lucy does not wish me to.

The walls of Santa Lucille, now
contain stains and mirrors
indentations made by needles.
Hymns written in fingerprints,
sung by dust.
When the floors of Santa Lucille became
lined with bags of heroine
on top of vials of cracks
the saints devolved into
proselytizers,
prostitutes and erections
drawn on the ceiling with the kind of ink
only Lucy can generate for us in our sleep.

The church began to crumble
when her asbestos bones became brittle
no longer boasting their robust remains
her aliases - illegal alien a/k/a angel-dust
but never ancestor.