by Amy Gerstler

Miracle mongers. Bedwetters. Hair-shirted wonder workers. Shirkers of the
soggy soggy earth. A bit touched, or wholly untouched living among us?
They shrug their bodies off and waft with clouds of celestial perfume. No
smooching for this crew, except for hems, and pictures of their mothers…
Their lips trespass only the very edges of succor. Swarms of pious bees precede
her. One young girl wakes up with a ring on her finger and hole in her throat.
Another bled milk when her white thigh was punctured. All over the world,
a few humans are born each decade with a great talent for suffering. They
have gifts that enable them to sleep through their mistreatment: the sleep of
the uncomplaining just, the sleep of the incomplete. Our relationship to
them is the same as our relationship to trees: what they exhale, we breathe.

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