She ran miles past American dreams grieving for religion. A whore of Magdalene with bread between thighs, drunk on wine the human condition and belief which turned out lies. God always found her, lost on a cracked bed barren from baptisms and pleas for forgiveness, granted by lashings Of ‘the Jesus belt’. She prayed to our Father in heaven. For her Father on Earth, just as she did at seven and as he did from her birth. She was never planned Always damned, born too early to be strong, Too late, to feel she belonged. A Fathers of seed who walked from his bloom made bleed, the roots of her womb and when he left her soiled she lay in the ditch coiled Watching, her sailor dress burn.