you know how fair this skin is
and still you concentrate your eyes
burning it like the sun, supposedly obliviously
staring at whats now a dark caste
made of leather, perplexed... but smitten
throw it over your shoulders like
your grandmother's hand knit scarves
and embark into the snow

your mother's chickens
that bawk; that shamelessly take her food
that she soothes; then fly away
full of her kindness, flightless and weighed down
out of the nest she built with her own jaws,
clumsily plunking to the ground.

your mother's children
that walk, that bawk; that she'll lose too
snapping their beaks, using their words as weapons
like hatchets they never sharpen
left inaudible but volatile,
and impatiently toss away
aimless, 'til their throats are sore
final squawks spent in defiance,
axes ricocheting like bullets
back in their mouths.

she can't help but smile at the
thought- there will be no
flying south,
not this winter-
not ever.

he was killed, i can promise you that
not that it meant a ******* thing
his hands were solid, calloused from everytime
he tried to set himself on fire
selfish immolation, no cause
no contribution, he wasnt
great
         full, for his feet
which stood on souls
because his iron skin
curled into steel fists
radiated power, white hot steam
creepily peeking out of the furnace

when he finally moved, carelessly
flailing around,
a steer in an antique mall
furnished with heirlooms
that were stolen,
that we weeped over for years,
he didnt care
                       fully pour himself a glass
to sooth his aching, his self infliction
he feared we, he did fear
unwittingly filling his glass with
water, belly full, poisoned
with clarity, we poured out his whiskey,
he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us
poisoned with clarity
his glass looked transparent,
reflected like a mirror
poisoned with clarity
he was so empty

the gate shut hard
locked deafeningly
ruffling the blankets
and making the mattress creak
a gentle breeze
woke me violently
and i was forced
to admit that i'm cold

lavender curls
that make my stomach hurl
'cause they smell so sweet
and heal at the feel
something i can't eat
only present for the season
while i was slipping
waking up, flat backed
on concrete, head aching
numb finger-toe tips
but my nose is warm

square semicircled, claiming false
empowerment notioning headfirst
addressing of inner, personal guttertrash
can be cleansing when, in all honesty,
everyday is sunday and that letters never coming
'cause that letter never sent

could it be
that taking one urgent step into the street
might be a means that
headlights flick to highbeams
and glide over me?