Disdain, had its eye on fire.
Shadows of dandelions used to fall
across my feet - where I now stand -
as did my children. Renting
life in each other's arms, under
that little pride we chose not to weep.
They raped, but left my wife only cut,
and me from the inside, forever lit
as I began to hear more in the dark.
About the menstrual sickness,
the turning of the book shelf,
boiling of the antelope's horns
in a town far, far from here,
where a feast prepared - they
called it the holocaust - of her
body as soup, and my brain as the bone.
Shadows of dandelions used to fall
across my feet - where I now stand -
as did my children. Renting
life in each other's arms, under
that little pride we chose not to weep.
They raped, but left my wife only cut,
and me from the inside, forever lit
as I began to hear more in the dark.
About the menstrual sickness,
the turning of the book shelf,
boiling of the antelope's horns
in a town far, far from here,
where a feast prepared - they
called it the holocaust - of her
body as soup, and my brain as the bone.
such cataclysmic actions by man ... holocaust indeed. we create it over and over again in our hands, one way or other too often (always?) perpetrator and victim.
ReplyDeletelove "body as soup, and my brain as the bone." love this inversion, consciousness having such definitive body itself!
xo
erin
Erin,
ReplyDeleteCan we ever break into these mental exercises of anonymity, where we try to recreate a moment, a pain nonetheless ? I wonder, I wonder. I just read this somewhere " Why write? Revenge! "