this morning, i could not get one breath in edgewise
as she stuck her nose in the air and told me condescendingly
how parroted prayer and mass-market worship got her closer to god

and i had to clench my teeth
to refrain from telling her
i prefer the nine inch nails version of
that.

voices rise from the cold earth
like necromancy, like apotheosis
calling your name in tritone
calling your name in screams

dark magic anchors me here;
my toes break and grow long
and root me to the earth
my skin hardens;
my knees lock like a trunk
and i sprout leaves from my fingers
i sing flowers from my tongue

your ashes have built me,
a fusion of grave-dirt and beating heart,
and i feel you in me now
more than i ever did before--

you are breaking out of heaven
you are breaking in to my body
you are breaking metaphysics
                                       to break me

                                       (to save me)

vultures and phoenixes fight on my branches

and i will harbor you
when you come all the way home

I doubt anyone knows
that my calloused fingers
are raw in their translucence
beneath the scars;

that the pomegranate and magnolia you wear
are in my veins like my very blood;

that your pulse was all that remained
when they stripped the rest of me away,

and that the melting point of steel
is 98.6 degrees.

divine assassin--
bury your benevolence
and take root in me

i knew nothing but solitude--
and then the snow fell.

from behind the windowpane, they entranced me:
twirling on the wind, innocent and delicate,
yet sharp as a star.

then, a raven, jet black, prey in his beak,
landed just outside; in the endless sea of white,
he began to **** the creature on the snow,
a scarlet slaughter.

transfixed, i went into the storm.

blood on my lips, raven wings on my back,
snow in my veins,

i let winter swallow me whole.

in a whirlwind of fire and leather,
you burn like the sun
and leave blood in your wake.

the way you fight is like good poetry,
sharp and smooth and meant to be savored.

and if a fist to the face
made you want me
i'd take ten.

today, in a public restroom,
i give birth

to the only fruit
my womb will ever produce:
a sanguine child, shredded and torn,
shapeless and faceless and lifeless.

the thick black ink of "god's plan"
mocks me from between my own thighs.
i stare blankly at the gray doors
as i hear the cries of the child
whose diaper is being changed outside.
i wonder: is she a good mother?
will that child grow up with bruises,
on his heart, on his face?

i am told, time after time,
to trust god, benevolent god,
and i can only grit my teeth--

for god so loved this child
that he forbade me to have my own.