Poetry
"Sick of his own face,
sick of his skin, of the dark,
he crawls outside himself
to sing — "
- Hosho McCreesh
to dig you up.
Inventing new ways to carry your corpse.
We were born from our mother's aching hands
and her aching.
​
We are a blood-locket family,
bound in a chrysalis opened
too early. Spilling out—our viscosity
& adaptive guts. Hearts cracking at the slighest
piercing touch.
​
Made a mess of
your/my/mom's hands.
I'm gonna get
gunked up
beneath your nails.
I'm gonna linger;
stained. Limb to
unrecognizable limb.
​
Just let me bury you. Is there anything left?
Just let me bury you.
There's unfinished business, but we can smear it
with the dirt.
Kouros
I will take your tiny passions, trim
your inedible edges, even though I’d devour what’s offered
with the shell. Spin delicate between the prongs
of my fork—
I’ll splay your unmanageable limbs.
I don’t need you legible
to taste, but I’ll take you written
all the same.
We’re both guilty
of outgrowing our misshapen bodies, and
coming home with new cheeks our mothers
hesitate to kiss.
But, you’ve never had manners,
not for a meal
like me:
the barren womb of a hand-me-down
-daughter, an unrealized could be good
for nothing.
You sample my hunger like piecemeal
at a god’s redemption and peel forgiveness
from my tongue.
I dare not air the question:
Do you revel in my starvation?
Your hands find the curves of my face in
prayer, wringing out
unyielding yeses
as a demonstration
of faith.
Maybe I will repent and die at
my best, gasping on my bludgeoned youth
and a destiny greater than
your own—
sanguine spit
in the sympathy.
Here, now, is the hour of our worship:
Who do you love? you’ll
ask, and I will be a good
disciple, blushing knees and
a stomach full of sacrifice, and I will say,
You. (My heart is choking.
My heart is choking.) Only you.
