They Try To Erase Me

I never had been born. It was old hands
that sketched my frame. Hands that knew how to suffer
wisely. It was a gift
to my bones, a curse that shifts
with weight and time.
Clocks wait on scales to tip time. I am rushed.
Blood cycles through my life.
Old lines outline my eyes. I am timed.

I slept with a man
and was traced. He recreated me; my child.
My simple face on a prettier canvas.
I didn’t wish for this.
I didn’t dream.
She just belongs to me.
I drag my bones along aching seas
each step pains deeper with memory,
with time.
Dark lines shade over mine.
They try to erase me

From my bones, I cry.
I cannot be
an easy sketch of a memory.

Copper Loaded Love

A green barrette, a gun.
Good-bye, my lady.

If I cut my hands off, my lucky gun would fit.

I gave three seconds and died
happy, life is just a lesson.
You are thirty seconds to the grave,
I am just a prison.

You’re Irish season swallows poison,
we terrified your liver. Good-
bye, my lady,
I am drowning in a river.

Everybody is looking,
I have your money here.
You cheat! You’re a cheat, painting courage over
with fear.

My white girl, I love you,
with a dark and heavy gun.
I shot you up, a million shots
with copper loaded love.

Drink your dark poison,
swallow your tainted love.
Good-bye. my lovely lady,
your green barrette, your gun.

I’d Have Given My Toes

My hands are my agony,
in deep rage, threatening
operation.

They collaborate with mutual’s:
knees,
elbows, feet,
wrists. The Pang Posse.

I’d have given my toes
with a hundred dollars
and a last
fruit stand for
proper, long-term
use.

Instead, I have pretty,
throbbing appendages, all in
natural
spots, functioning
barely.

Great Chronic Abyss

These finger links
of mine, no longer grow
but,
oh, how they grind!

I shift
puff-puff
skeleton knots, dis-locating
invisible wounds.

Morning is a stiff time. I am a scroll,
unrolling myself from
sleep ooze
and
itch,

useless cramped squares
stand
on trial for invisible crimes,

charged

with betrayal,
laziness,
deceit.

Tender body cage, must be fallacious!
What a disease!
What a nuisance I have grown to be,
with invisible
torment,
a foggy fever.

My skin understands my body bag antics!
It attempts detachment from me,
wants no part of
a
walking, breathing lie!

Slight touch sends the annoyed body film
into
fit – a raging, burning, frenzy
reaching for a
fool’s
exit.

Worried and choked,
we tizzy,
we taut,
my bright, red, rot skin
and me

deciding that our womb blood
has been chasing us
since our
original
birthday, trying to swim fast enough to
catch up with our skepticism.

Still vernal, but
not enough. We follow, we follow
heredity’s footsteps
into a great chronic abyss.