Salvation

The woman w/ maggots in her legs
dozes in an over-stuffed chair.
Flies orbit her head, blacken the walls,
Lay their eggs in the moist-warm holes in her body.

She whispers to the pipers* who call her Granny,
bring her potato chips or warm ginger ale then
curl into the room’s dark corners.
Their match flames reflect in her dull eyes.
Sulfur mixes with the smell of garbage

The woman w/ maggots in her legs
never changes her clothes.
Her socks writhe against her ankles.
Her shoes appear to be full of rice.

She dreams of sheets boiled white,
sunshine through clear window panes.
The tickling in her body is the touch of God,
the buzzing, the wings of angels.

*Pipers are crack-addicts