There's an incredibly fine line between judgement
And pity
We pity those less fortunate
Yet think they must be to blame
God will punish the evil
That's what the preachers claim

flatten your tongue
slip it between your teeth

n.

your little lips
forming an elipsis

o.

put them together
and may you declare
a word you’d so carefully deny—
no.

you spell it out
on table tops
shout it
from the rooftops

and when cursed hands
seek to defile your shrine
may you exclaim
"i am mine"

Memories exhumed like creeping camisados

are out here stalking once more. A cacophonous attack

of unsuccessful repression, screaming

of the foregone,

of the degredations you spat from profane pulpit,

and of my tongue, jarred, a malign antiquity.

And of what you left, burning from inside, that was

to emerge, in time, from what you liked best about me.

A fruit blossom blooming; a rose potted in ****-

I put that out after thirty-nine moons.

Tip toeing towards tremendous plains,

a few times tripped, but never tumbled.

The cacophony’s eurythmic now, now

that I recall where the screaming first stopped.  

A blossom, a rose (or something greater)

given to me to put things right.

My black turning blue, improved and renewed,

a parturition extinguished through love.

And now I bloom, faintly, in the shade of you.