four priests four priests pray the city block marching four sidewalks in time pirouetting the corners at once, guarding the nameless building. with rosaries wrapped to tight fists, they offer deep low prayers. ghosts fear the black robes, refuse to pass but we pass, you and i; holy sweat on your skin, my sugar in your belly.
winter garden when the devil kissed my sister i had my feet up on the couch drinking from a frosted glass. he always smiled with kind eyes pouring the coke, more foam than coke. cracking jokes laughing before the punch-line his fat hands spread over his slick belly; he rubbed his back against the door frame to reach the itch, animal against tree. two sailors put white powder in her drink and she woke up only briefly to see them on top of her, one after the other; maybe 2? maybe 3? maybe more? afterward she cut off her locks and stopped eating. and when i chopped wood for the old lady my hands were prickly from the cold. i loved her winter garden; losing myself i took frequent breaks, she made me coffee and i walked the rock terraces pretending behind the trees. the old lady knitted me a purple afghan and the farmer next door told stories of how when she was young and her husband still lived that she would meet him at his plough hike up her skirt and climb him in the field. the red door was closed, so i returned to the table sat down with my coke wrapped my hand around the glass feeling the stinging.
Andrew K. Clark is a writer of poetry and fiction. He was born in Biloxi, Mississippi and grew up in Asheville, North Carolina. His poems have been published in the Miscellany Magazine as well as The Ogeechee Review. He lives in Savannah, Georgia with his wife Renee, and two children: Elijah and Natalie.