thunder, wears a rubber face
marry it, they say, all is flooding
seashells and sticky pearls wait for lighting shows
more tea, for the knees, a strip tease of skin and bones
my mind is polluted-like pillboxes committing itself
a communion of tablets too red, to hurt me again
-
A pediatric psychologist
Asked me what I was afraid of
I drew him a home
With windows that did not properly close
blood tall, blood bold
hollow spots creased
her freckled face
her wounds timed the birth of doves
never telling the same story twice
not a babble, not a psychotherapy
purged the rhymes
or the fillings inside her teeth
with an endless twitch
the yellowy loneliness
became her wholly penicillin
a rainbow, a distant past
a woman with fish for ovaries
New Orleans, Louisiana
A few years ago I found myself in a modest room trying to bring back the words. The pastel’d wombs whose fingers ceased to trace. It was there were my visions, my omens, my hallucinations reversed.
Sadness christened me, my rivers, my laughter, my ability to manipulate that unceasing spirit inside of me. I don’t write these words to justify the madness that sometimes corrupts me.
You who reads this, whose seen the animals at my knees. Recreating is all I know, it’s how I breathe, how I love.
I remember being three with angels thoughtful of my stomach steadily shaping my memory. . .
with fingers who enjoy unbalancing skin
am i mad for offering
these erased lines
smudging the hissed privacy
i am alive and in the gender
who once suffocated me
now you are here
tracing my bones
building a home
fascinating the corduroy
permanently kissing
the bedded knot inside my chest
perhaps i should not share this write
after all you the determined man
polish the decay within these stirrups
loving the worst part of me
the wild souls who bounced me
examining the little people
their loneliness
the child
the real fish
who swam away
- me who loves you
