perhaps you have bewitched me
with your promise of violets
in the middle of February
when there isn’t a single living ecosystem to be found
anywhere but inside of us,
but I have been roving the black ice
in thick socks and high boots,
my dead brother’s sweatshirt and the story
to woo,
robed in stifled violence and
pride for a job well done
from the other clever orphans
seeking solace in intemperate nights
and bare, blue chest;

iced & they offer me fresh fingers,
long necks to lick
or strangle
depending on the grace,
sudden cries to smother
with my unshaven underarm.
we play gentle radicals
with our leg hair and pixie cuts
and never waste our bleached teeth
on anything less than an audience if it’s a
protest we are performing.
we make sure we are seen, heard, have signs and
wallow with perfect timing.
swap books, scarves,
antidotes for too much silence.
they give me twenty five excuses
for everything,
they don’t believe in flowers
or permanent lovers.
besides,

will you still lick my wounds if I
taste like someone else’s mother?

 

“cradle”

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s