"digit" poems
Eto ako ngayon,
nakahiga kama ko
isipan ay walang laman kun’di ikaw.
nababaliw sa bawat senaryo
na kasama ka.
Ilang beses ko na naisip
at na plano ang gagawin
sa oras na dumating ang
panahon na kailangan gumawa ng desisyon
kung pagpapatuloy ba natin
ang ating pagsasama.
at ilang beses ko na ding
nasagot ang sarili na
oo.
Kase wala lang naman akong
hihilingin kung’di ikaw
na nag papatibok ng puso ko.
Ang taong pumupulot sa mga basag kong piraso,
at binubuo ako, gamit ang ginto.
Kase ang mga hapon ay may sining
na kapag ang isang bagay ay nabasag
ang ginagawa nila dito ay
ginagamit ang ginto bilang pang digit.
Para sa kanila,
ang bagay na iyon ay mas maganda at kabighabighani
kesa nung eto ay hindi pa nababasag.
Ikaw ang ginto
na bumubuo
sa mga basag kong piraso.
Salamat.
Mahal kita.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
A dizzy flake of snow falls,
perfectly balanced, upon
one outstretched finger's squat end.
It clings tight for a second-
a sticky, icy second
where I hold with fragile care
the weak sliver, and my breath.
Yet, the next moment, only
water my digit holds up.
It melts away instantly
with the dry warmth I supply,
and I find that, always, all
the delicate, pretty ones
with exquisite tender grace
burn out ever the fastest, first.
So snowdrop kisses, on the
frosty, red nip of my nose
now only make me shiver.
It's all just skin and ice,
and more ice and skin.
Peels of snow and chips of freeze
make chilled my blood and glazed eyes.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!
Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.
Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.
What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.
What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
I was dancing at a dance club
Two stepping all about
When my thumb, it found a belt loop
And I couldn't get it out
I shifted and I wiggled
I ****** my hips out front in time
I bent over and I shimmied
I was twerking on the line
Now, I ain't no Miley Cyrus
You can believe me now or not
I wasn't up there twerking
It's because my thumb was caught
I sashayed and I moseyed
And others got up too
My thumb was still encumbered
What the hell was I to do?
I was twerking like a mad man
Not knowing how, or why
But the pain in my one digit
Just made me want to die
Maybe now I know the reason
Miley Cyrus did her dance
She wasn't up there being slutty
She had her thumb stuck in her pants
Now, I'm through with twerking
And there's is one thing that you'll find
That unlike young Miley Cyrus
You don't want to watch me from behind!!!
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
I’m sorry if my body fat
triggers feelings of disgust in you,
but I hope you’re ready
because I’m about to shoot the gun.
Please, don’t feed the fat girl in a bikini on the beach.
My skin is not an insult, a statement, an apology,
or something to be picked and pulled apart
by your crisp magazine pages.
I refuse to cry over the pale white lines that show I
have blossomed from a child into a wide-hipped woman.
I don’t need a man to tell me that my body is acceptable,
merely by his standards of what his ******** rises for.
I’m sorry if my life makes me happy, and your life makes you not,
but I choose weight over senseless standards because
I can be beautiful with double-digit-sized pants.
Maybe you are uncomfortable with your
own uncomfortableness and with my
security in my flawed skin.
And although many of my “sorry(’s)” in this passage
are sarcastic, I am genuinely sorry that someone can feel
so negative in the only space that will ever truly be their own.
Please, don’t feed the fat girl in a bikini on the beach,
she does not need bitter and hateful words
that will literally eat away at her.
She’d much rather you go find someone
who actually gives a ****
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
I lay down
your creamy expanse
unto the marble surface,
as if milk made love with
the stars in the galaxies.
I write you out
as pleasant simmer
of pulverized charcoal
and bloated glycerine.
I splatter and spread
fine dusts of Carica
in temperate motion
to touch the sleek edges
of the vanilla branches
on your person.
I hold and dip
my feathery digit
amongst rose water
to grasp the flowers
that frames your face,
like light morganites
that hail from the west.
I cast you off
as the blue sea engulfs
the life from the waters
where life swims with
stable beginnings
and whirlwinds of stories.
I finish you
by letting molten pearls
lither your dark onyx orbs,
surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond,
like shooting comets
finding rest on land,
as lightning's faint and close
but never quite touch.
I made you
with intrinsic detail and rawness
to give you the life
that you may never have.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole
the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin
without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated
the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds
the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole
empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger
your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****
just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
professor Burke and professor Lee
two mathematicians who could not agree
loudly voiced their differences at half past noon
having daily lunch at the Greasy Spoon
the subject on the fateful day was Pi
and they could not see eye to eye
a disagreement on the thousandth digit
had Burke turn red and caused Lee to fidget
said Burke “No you are off by one!”
spat Lee “Your math is poorly done!”
Burke shouted, “Lee, you have gone too far!”
reached toward the counter for a candy jar
but his hand instead encountered pie
a hideous gleam sprang to his eye
he flung the pie with all his might
hit Lee full face, eyes wide with fright
but Lee recovered and found more pies
Boston Creme took Burke between the eyes
apple, custard, lemon, berry
pecan, pumpkin, key lime, cherry
pies of every kind were thrown
plates' radius squared remained unknown
the police arrived to break up the fray
took the two meringued men away
many hours later in the quiet cell
with pie for ink and tempers quelled
the two stood looking at the wall
upon which lay their equation scrawled
said Burke, with both their faces long
“Well, what do you know. We both were wrong.”
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:20 PM UTC
Indigo.
I refuse to use
That word for blue.
Why say digit
When toe will do.
Indigo: It's pedantic
Donnish
Academic
Should I mention
It's pretentious.
Some use it to explain
Deeper feelings
Than it can.
Sacrebleu!
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
"Is there anybody there?" said the caller,
"Six ten eight oh one two four three nine?"
And his ears attuned to the empty hum
Of the long-forgotten line;
And an LED on the handset
Flashed, for a moment, red,
And he dialled the number a second time:
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one replied to the caller,
No sound but the dialling tone
Came drifting into his waiting ear
As he held that haunted phone;
But only a host of phantom listeners,
Of spectres weak and strange
Stood hearkening to that human voice
That echoed around the exchange;
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
And his heart was afraid and nervous,
With his hand on the final digit
Of that number not in service;
For he suddenly tapped the receiver
And spoke on that line of dread:
"Tell them I called, and no one answered,
That I kept my word!" he said;
Ay, they heard him replace the receiver,
And his mumbled cursing later,
With the usual subdued but enthused delight
Of the switchboard operator.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
Today in class, I saw you writing a spreadsheet
Numbering girls looks from 1 to 10
You gave me a 7, told me that was alright
But I don't want you to define my beauty with a number
To the government, I'm just a digit
To charities, I'm a statistic
To businesses, I'm only the amount I own
I want to go back to the days when you wrote poems about me
You caressed my flaws and kissed my imperfections
The day you told me I was gorgeous, I looked myself in the mirror
"I'm actually pretty" "I'm like all those other girls" I told myself
But what's changed since then?
When you fell out of love with me, did my importance sink too?
With a clear view, do my downfalls and my embarassing body diguist you?
You were too insensitive to show the slightest bit of affection
So you labelled me, gave me an average and put me in a category
To you, I just want to be human
To be beautiful
To be loved
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
There is a Professor Robbie,
who has a calculating hobby;
He delights in asking his pets,
with multiple inherent defects,
or not too brainy, to be exact.
If 2n is more or less than 2-n,
and 3x is same as 3 men, then,
the study of maths be banned.
With that Robbie will surely object,
for he makes a living on the subject;
He takes not too kindly our slow wit,
and chips away our esteem, digit-by-digit.
Equations after equations, he blast,
until one brave pet, at long last,
who sees more value in a candy bar,
than juggling numbers to solve algebra.
So Robbie, will you be ever so kindly,
spare the aging cells of these cuties,
singularly or simultaneously.
So loose no healthy slumber,
by chasing after prime-numbers;
And we who have trouble with dy or dx,
well, there is always graphic ***
If you think this -- dX+2(x^2 - x*y^2)dy=0 -- is cool,
to make idiots out of fools,
do not be easily trapped,
into giving polite claps;
or stare at them with awe,
for they are nothing more,
than saying pluses can turn into minuses,
and at times even used as voodoo curses.
But Robbie will still caress them tenderly,
like they are his little babies,
annoying different people, differentially.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 3:12 AM UTC
It’s not a ranking or an achievement
As if far from the “top.”
It’s an advancement
Starting from the “first place”;
The greater magnitude being a positive progression.
It’s not even a race in the “first place.”
A dual-digit place marker can and should indicate you’re moving forward.
At this point, you meet the requirements and criteria
For adult access to many sights, tastes,
And times.
Of course, that’s not the ultimate cause of celebration
For being in [the] “23rd place.”
When you’re in [the] 23rd place, you’re in a comfortable position
And not necessarily at a crucial extremum of attention.
There will be those behind and those in front,
So, though you keep your own pace nevertheless,
To know you’re no longer in first place,
Yet not in last place of your course of path,
Means that you have some to teach
And still some who may offer pointers, tips, tricks, inspirations,
And the gift of encounter, however brief or long.
There are many who long to be in first place or last place
Because the extrema tend to get the recognition.
The important insight is to recognize that, not only do the numbers matter little,
But you can make them stand out, like the number 23.
There’s random selection, too, amid those spontaneous humor-goers,
And then there’s placement and fixation
With purpose, sincerity, and intention.
You’re 23 not solely based on record
Or coincidence;
You’re 23 because you lived out the previous age
In every way: what you missed, what you learned, what you offered,
And what you planted.
On your birthday and every day,
The newness longed for arrives in a time not desired or unwanted,
But at a time just right, which still causes waves of pain and waves of relief
Across space anyway. Happy Birthday Devin!
You’re in [your] 23rd place!
Celebrate this checkpoint!
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
They float they soar bursting
Warmly on her nose, she giggles
At The sensation felt, at the
Feeling of happiness that now
Grows as they drift along.
They were her little wings,
Gliding through a flurry of
Rainbows, shimmering light
Glances of perfect bubbles.
Kaleidoscopes Bouncing
From one to another as little
Wings let bubbles Play with
The wind, a wonderful sight
To be hold.
She looked at this little wings,
Awe struck upon there creations
Upon the beauty of this dragons
Two. She wiggled her fingers
Playful towards them both
As one licked upon her digit
Then kissed her on her nose.
Flurries of laugher, innocent
And true, were followed by
A cloud of bubbles, shimmering
In the clear blue. She would
Always remember this day, as
She played with her little bubble
Dragons. Do you want to play in
The garden with me, bubbles,
Dragons and you.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
While sleeping in the water,
Sea otters may hold hands to keep
From drifting apart.
Holding hands,
Minds sail somewhere between consciousness
And to a sea of thoughts and wonders.
We take to rough waters and
Tighten our grips
And then relax them.
My pale body’s dead cold,
But my hand comes to life in yours.
We stroke each other’s fingers with our own,
Each digit of yours is so smooth
Like an otters silky coat.
I study your hands
Every curve
And every bend.
Blinded by wondrous waters,
Touch will find your promised land.
As you studied me I thought,
“Don’t let me go”
Because I was drifting towards love
And I didn't want to go alone.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 10:22 AM UTC
I was on the way to pick her up,
was just about to cross a slippery slope
on the front yard of my in-laws’ home.
Forget how long it took me to cross,
Huh, I had to solve a riddle.
A Moon pops up halfway through,
right in my way, it just won’t move.
I said I don’t need any horoscope,
already married, I am not a groom!
She goes, I too don’t fancy fussing about.
The riddle I got is only an easy-peasy one.
Just tell me your W duo—Where and When
did you take your first breath?
I laugh, isn't it the mum who can tell best,
who saw it first when I was born
but I can't go back and ask her,
she won’t show up
unless I return home, picking her up.
I said to the moon, o dear,
never did I say you got a scar,
that a spot on your face is cute, fair,
is only a cool shadow of one’s
deep-rooted fine lock of hair!
I then ran to the expert scientist.
He said it’s all vibrating but knows not
where the heck, if ever the spin might stop.
Again I ran to knock on the Sufi’s door.
He seemed to know why I went there,
And said in a deep voice, “as far as I know,
you don’t have a sister-in-law!”
Again the moon asks, in a heavy tone
“Tell me the truth,” before it's too long,
I said you’re in my way,
“I am not asking for an acre of moon.
Spare me a digit gap if you could.”
Unlike how the lands on earth, she tells,
keep changing the hands,
owning the ultimate plot is still one’s dream.
But no space is left unmeasured in space.
You miss by a hairbreadth, no matter how tiny,
and you might as well miss it by the eternity.
So zero space can I spare says the moon
This is it, the dead end, no more room to move.
Still, even a closed circle can’t be close,
the smallest atom is not the smallest to be closed.
The constant spin inside it constantly finds
ever more space to move on, because the root
pi is cracked open, spills out a new decimal,
though none can pinpoint, in this finest loophole
the sky can sway and earth finds a mouth to jingle!
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
This my our journey.
Ice...
Jutting miles towards the heavens.
Above the jet stream.
Higher than most airliners fly,
Up and beyond,
The pinnacle of our love,
Is the closet to the stars.
I am lured by its magnificence,
I am attracted by the challenge.
Even though there is a chance,
I wont survive.
Storm winds blow 100 miles per hour,
Pounding it's victims,
With triple digit wind chills,
And zero visibility.
Every climber dies a little.
Fighting a losing battle against cachexia,
Because above 18 000 feet,
Cuts never heal,
The body depletes,
The air is so dry,
A cough literally fractures a ribs.
Weathering such unfriendly conditions
Is...
The ultimate test.
There is a 99% chance,
That I'll fail the quest.
But I promise
I'll do,
My best.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
I'm surrounded by the sounds of ******* idiocy
The television that never shuts off or up
The moronic laughter at the low brow sit-com
Do you realize the sound you emit
Your double digit I.Q. on display, gleaming
Made almost brighter in the technicolor
Not knowing, comprehending that it should clothe and hide
Itself
Mouth agape, eyes X-ed
Until the simple comments on the banal commentary
Start spilling out the neck
I can smell it and I want to wretch
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 4:56 PM UTC
#
I'm very good with numbers; Always been inside my brain
They freely shift and move about; Allowed to dance and play
However, one equation baffles and confuses me
That one plus one will equal two; This is not what I see
It's people who must be confused; Wrong value they give "one"
Because the single integer alone can't have much fun
It's only with another "one" first one will come to life
With purpose, reason, starts to smile; Now feeling satisfied
The presence of the second one gives first one happiness
When one is standing all alone life has not much to give
Can not survive a vacuum; It is dark and empty space
No digit there to interact; One's value just a waste
Some people disagree with me; Say one is fine alone
And doesn't need another one for value to be shown
I don't completely disagree but my experience
That I feel most fulfilled with life when I receive and give
The elegance of the exchange; Where miracles exist
Life's greatest gift is that of love but with it there's one twist
How it takes two to tango; Love is not a solo dance
To give another all your heart is taking a big chance
But can't compare reward to risk; The blissful ecstasy
Cause "one" is more like just a half but with love it's complete
#
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
Let’s divide the sky, you and I,
With Wilco tapping our gut, our eyes,
Supplanting the clouds from our grape cigars;
We’ve been folded, too creased to remember
Those country nights, those starry remnants when I would
Always point east with a fettered finger.
If I held it long enough, just enough,
Horns would bud, deviling my digit,
And the fireplace froze over.
I destroy homes and fall, fall, fall with them.
I play the bench observer,
Cigarette **** to people with permanent smiles.
‘Relax,’ you said ‘you need to relax,’
But your lips chapped and bleeding--
They resemble mine in humid daylight,
And the sky moistens and melts
To the tantalizing tune, yellowed summerteeth.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Nyirmachabelli
The woman who lives alone on the mountain
Her wheels she named Lilly
National Geographic cover girl
Protector of the mountain gorilla
Buried now beside her friend Digit
In Karisoke, Nyirmachabelli
Our Lady of the Mist
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
*i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.*
as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of derrida
is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.
She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses
herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises
from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours
cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash
me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.
She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,
rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.
Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the
nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed
against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens
the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross
on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one
side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers
growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun
is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.
Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin
to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never
make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never
told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.
Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC