Make me the Matron Saint of All Rotten Fruits.
Squeeze the softer berries for the sweeter juice.
Make of me medallions & put me on chains.
Give my like to new queers…blessing hearts & brains.
Write for me your hopes, kiss my coin & burn them.
Maybe ash lands in my lap…who can say for certain?
Keep on scribbling your wants & your needs for…me?
At the very least, you’ve made records to see.
As your lives wear on & dreams start to run real.
You can credit me…or to yourself thus deal.
L.B.Stowe 