Could I
carry that
for you?
The softness of it,
so still in my hand,
a dead bird.
But I know it must feel
like dark matter in yours;
too heavy
- just, bright -
to com-
prehend.
.
There's something a bit
dusty about us;
if we dared to be
cute,
we would be bunnies.
The only thing
rabbit here
is our hab(b)it
of hiding
in broad daylight.
We turn invisible.
The gods cannot see us.
Otherwise,
you mottle and split
like a cobra,
so much
shed skin
and foreign,
new bodies.
.
I shudder at 'was.'
I have scratched
500 days
in the wall calendar,
and I just say 'was, was, was,'
like it's
the breath
of life,
(something precious
to buttery mosaics
and grieving gods,)
'I was skinny.
I was nice.
I was happy.'
N o w y o u ' r e d o i n g i t t o o.
Your hands are at your own throat
and you've scraped your skull clean,
inside and out.
Please put down your knife,
we will not eat our hearts
tonight.
I brought home icecream.
Get your spoon.
.
I think I made this.
This shadow that chose you,
following you around,
speaking in tongues;
and the guilt
is so much more
than bruises and string-chokings,
slamming your toe in the door
when I was two,
(snake sp(l)its, in the nail,
to this very day,)
bumping away at night
when we were empty-handed
and sorrowful,
dead morning glories
crying at dawn.
(Ladies whispering:
"so young, so sad")
Never has there been such a
disjointed thought
as trying to be good,
for caring for your mother and
so
slowly
drowning her
in our specifics
and demands
to inherit
something other than
mistakes.
.
We are her murders
and her children,
you and I -
brother.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 10:43 PM UTC
Could I
carry that
for you?
The softness of it,
so still in my hand,
a dead bird.
But I know it must feel
like dark matter in yours;
too heavy
- just, bright -
to com-
prehend.
.
There's something a bit
dusty about us;
if we dared to be
cute,
we would be bunnies.
The only thing
rabbit here
is our hab(b)it
of hiding
in broad daylight.
We turn invisible.
The gods cannot see us.
Otherwise,
you mottle and split
like a cobra,
so much
shed skin
and foreign,
new bodies.
.
I shudder at 'was.'
I have scratched
500 days
in the wall calendar,
and I just say 'was, was, was,'
like it's
the breath
of life,
(something precious
to buttery mosaics
and grieving gods,)
'I was skinny.
I was nice.
I was happy.'
N o w y o u ' r e d o i n g i t t o o.
Your hands are at your own throat
and you've scraped your skull clean,
inside and out.
Please put down your knife,
we will not eat our hearts
tonight.
I brought home icecream.
Get your spoon.
.
I think I made this.
This shadow that chose you,
following you around,
speaking in tongues;
and the guilt
is so much more
than bruises and string-chokings,
slamming your toe in the door
when I was two,
(snake sp(l)its, in the nail,
to this very day,)
bumping away at night
when we were empty-handed
and sorrowful,
dead morning glories
crying at dawn.
(Ladies whispering:
"so young, so sad")
Never has there been such a
disjointed thought
as trying to be good,
for caring for your mother and
so
slowly
drowning her
in our specifics
and demands
to inherit
something other than
mistakes.
.
We are her murders
and her children,
you and I -
brother.
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