The Twins

I have been brought a morning in bed,
yellow hands expand my eyes.
I rise as a vulture,
slender billed, nut beaked,
baking for a sun day.
The night salted me; an open wound,

the darkness delivered my twins.
She was duplicated, the little girl,
the golden daughter of heroin and hope,
she was on ice,
waiting for me, to grow.

It was a discrete joy, a time to prevent
a murdered life, to create
an identical heaven.
This time, she was mine.

But, the golden splatter was received
as the sun rose above
shadow boxes, as my blemished hands
become liver,

and we yellowed.
With tattered feathers, “we”
became “I”.
No duplication.
No sweet, heavenly replication
waiting for me, to grow.

Your Darkness

Are you just out of mind? Or have
you lost bed, too?
I’ll lay you down with straw and
help catch your rogue.

The passage to sleep
is in a cottage, as bare
as birthed privates, down a
cottaged street. The seeker has treats
in that darkness! The darkness
where we meet.

You collected loneliness
in places that I jog in. I
watched you paint,
I watched you slice your flesh
with window,
I watched you crawl under his
sheets at night, to
ward off  the darkness.

Still it comes, a happy thief,
painted like a victim,
no matter your age, it never will
outgrow you.
Though, your flowers bloom and
your pumpkins grow,
though you scrub light into
your palms,
it never will outgrow you.

I taught you a language, a long time ago, a
protection from the shadows,
before sun marked your
pale skin,
before your lips touched a sugar breast,
you were my garden,
you were my flower;
a light, all of your own, to light your darkness.

The Drums Began

and then they left their home,
one by one, the salty fluid pouring
into each other, God called
down to Margaret that morning;

“I know spaces between stones,
that, years ago, repressed me.
A harp was broken by an angel,
and now you shall go empty.”

Drums beat wild; a spell of evils
cast up from Hell’s almighty.
Can I exist, just as this?
A nightmare in a body?

I was given a black trail,
a tricycle, and blindly
left my post beneath the drums
to find captivity.

I listened from a noisy Inn
near the Mighty Mississippi,
its waters shook all voice
and took it selfishly.

So, I went, to a purple mountain,
to visit Mighty Oak Trees,
but my tears tried to drown
me there, drip, drip, dripping.

Heaven became worth it when
I had realized it hardly,
every stone and every man
awaited hardening,

I sat in line, in silence
with them, picking at my knees,
when fire grabbed a child’s limb
and she screamed in agony.

I found that I was not an
Angel, the devil had been dwelling
in wine and liquor and
my heart had, all this time, been failing.

November Legs

I have not felt my legs in four years.
I hate months. Each carries different
demons. November is a home-wrecker.
Prancing in lives
like a horse,
with a horse,
trampling my legs,
shattering a fragile life.

He went with the moon.
A silver carriage
whisking him into the night.
I laid on the floor in
a broken heap. Expecting.

A cloud came in and took his place.
Pouring sharp gulp after gulp.

Until, questions came.
Until the bugs crawled through
my nostrils,
dragging hallucinations behind them
on chains.

I loved them. For a moment,
I loved them. But their names changed.
On a basis.
We went infrared together.
Having seizures and one night stands.
Dancing black dances.
Taxi after taxi. Until,

the cloud cleared. Left me like he did.
November was not anymore,
and still I cannot feel my legs.