Let them soak in their own
revelations
while I sit here
under trees, hands folded,
bloodstone at my knees and make no effort
to yell back.
I’m hoarse, I’m tired, I’m defeated
from the center, out.
Quit my show as moving mausoleum.

All winter,
stuffed with mirrors,
others’ houses, I hold them
like a throw pillow under my ankles.
They see the knife in my pillowcase
and they know the deep shaft I bellow
from is not for them to roam
this time.
I stay dry with one eyebrow cocked,
ready to question every microcosmic
thread they set as if I am not a hungry
spider seeking a break in string,
a break for meat.
Wrap my goosebumps
in light prose and Oriental throws.
Fingers like vines
clinging desperately
to my own perpetual,
linear growth
as I lean towards the light,
catch bees in my wind,
swallow mice when I’m famished
and become the feared pitcher plant;
become steel glove or swift dog or
whatever lullaby rips
from the center,
out.

Near the end of March,
when the sprouts begin blossoming
death finally comes for winter florae
to make room for
fresher
greener buds
waiting to grab hold
of my fattened arms and
plant themselves firmly
in the decedent’s  hapless dust.

I open my arms
like  petals
of a thirsty rose
longing to be personified
in rhyme and elegance
instead of soaking wet in my own
obsessive defilement.
But the sky remembered
(I am a cloud at night)

she had lightning.

“April”

 

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