The oatmeal spills
steaming
spills like vomit
spills like vomit from the mouth
spills like snow off a roof, too
heavy
too heavy for you or me or them and especially,
my mother.
Licking mayonnaise off the fingers,
biting into raw onions,
savoring the tears,
sopping up (fake) hamburger juice and cheese off plates
with faces bought from the stars,
with forks bought from discount stores,
off plates from discount stores.
Half off for your children's clothing
something, they too, have heaved on and dirtied.
Relentless-
the way children drown in dust and swing sets and in their tears
and not for nothing
not for nothing
do they cry.
They-
the most connected, the most concentrated cells, the most complete beings,
all questions no answers all wonder no pandering lying sneaking stealing
hollerin at women out the window of a car
drinkin beer to keep away memories of a childhood not dealt with.
If it was hell, deal with it. Sit in it. Sit in it.
Hell is not for those who will sit in the flames,
it is for those who would run, run, run,
hot coals everywhere coals flames licking the body licking the sweat
how sexual how steamy how erotic the flames, how they lick, swallow, spit.
Hell isn't for those who will sit in their problems, in their broken childhoods.
Sit in it. Feel it. Take it in, breathe it out. Don't forget. Get better, don't rise up to the occasion, don't let it hurt anyone else. Take your pain and trust it.