The Holy Cardinal of January

Every sin is pardonable

to the Holy Cardinal of January.
Blessings make him wary:
he has no truck with Jesus:

he believes us perfectly
redeemed just as we are –
the random lone
detritus of a star –

frozen ova sown from some
exploding supernova very far
away. Prone to sway
and swoon at scarlet –

wed to shades of harlot red –
he doesn’t like when
it’s assumed that winter’s only
right when it has bled

to white; it’s never quite
convinced him; crimson’s
at the center of the hues he’d
choose, and does –

bears witness to resistance –  
proclaims the blood’s insistence.
Otherwise he wouldn’t think
of making bold:

he hides inside, enfolded
in the heart: hopes
you’ll know he’s there
despite the cold.




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