You had come to call me Saint Albert
during one of many recent discussions
about the trouble in June.
You meant it lovingly
enough I know, but I have decided
that is what I am. And a martyr, too.

I have lived among
the wild asses west of Genoa
and far from Assisi. I have picked olives
and carted them on these animals
and each olive, ripe and plump
and oily to the touch, represents
a failed purpose squashed beyond
our virgin basket
into memory.

I am poor and have helped the poor
help themselves to me
so that feeling sorry for myself
rises to the level of vision.

I see Horsemen. You cannot
come out of the sun on asses
and dictate to anyone. I was hit
by a truck and lived. But my miracles
are one step in front of the other
and the love of you.

My arms are wide. A willing target,
a place for vines.

Get the new issue, Confrontation 119, Spring 2016.