The Children In Their Sleep

A woman wrinkles over her chair,
soaked in religion, 
piling God’s children on gravel. 
They eat with her disciples
where bread is dry, yet
milk is sweet. 

I stand by with clover. 
I paint the children green and set them up
as chess pieces. 
Confused feet step over boundaries, 
but it is her game. 

Her weight stomps chicken bones. 
Her voice pours like gravy 
over our heads, till I put them to sleep, 
and the lullaby’s rock me
as I bleach time from my head. 

The woman is asleep
in God’s arms, I rest at his feet, 
and the children, 

in their sleep, sing. 

Monday Confession

It will be several days of confession.
I have starved myself.
I have been hard and violent.

Each doctor takes note, takes opinion,
takes my blood and stirs
it in his coffee.

It’s Monday. 9:30 A.M.
The sterile tile has been examined,
the hard carpet, despised!
I twist dismay into the carpet fiber
with one foot,
the other taps out
awkward silence.

Sunday was a long day of struggle.
I ate out of the palm of a man,
tugged at his whiskers and
kissed him.
He had a candlestick, long like a lady,
using its light to sort me out.
I had only borrowed trust,
I had to protect myself.

He became a smoky tantrum,
a raging death match forcing truth
out of my swollen mouth.
It was a Sunday of ruin.

Confession came, thick bees swarming
my tongue,
a blur of black and yellow before
I fell hard out of life.
I woke up to this Monday, a dream,
a foggy span of blasting conscience .

And this is just the start.

It Is My Breathe

In any room,
it does not matter which colors are used or
which carpet is laid,
in any room where teeth grind together,
or heavy hands grow into tree stumps,
I lose my breath.

It is not just any breath, either.
It is the breath that keeps me,
that prays for me
during moments that the stone ships sail in,

it is the breath that I hold
when dog-faced warriors
chop off my family’s heads,

it is the breath I caught when
unwanted hands disturbed my
tranquil femininity,

and it is in any room painted any color,
where deep red blows flushed faces into tight lips
and she,
or he,
pound voices of hammer,
roaring chunks of stew
into my tiny chest,
I do not know if it is I, or if

my breath loses me.

And Their Colour

I see how he boils
I see his skin blistered and peeling
at the surface, and
I see what lies beneath.

I couldn’t help it, his voice started out whimsy and soon turned grey.
I searched for colour, for exposure, for sound;
in every wrinkle,
in every scar I searched, but they grew dull
and duller, still.

There is only one way at a time like this,
for me, just one way.
I carved a switch, long and thin,
kissed it from tip to tip,
dipped it in ferocious honesty
and laid it upon him.

Every sharp went unacknowledged, ignorance shaded
his wounds, so I left them.
He came back for another round and
I smacked him with truth,
defiance and with truth,
and he did not believe me.
So, I left.

Then, he came back and I swat him again.
I welted and blistered his skin, this
time colour arose.
Red infection swelled at the lacerated sites,
and he boiled.
I listened to his blood and his voice boil,
and his skin gash and then blister,
but before all this
I saw what hid beneath.

Now, I stand in front of my mirror,
where he thinks my reflection is
hollow and bare,
and I see all of my wrinkles and scars
and where they came from
and that they will always be

but with their colour,
and their colour,
and their colour!

I Was Born To A Gray World

I was born to a gray world.
Void of sunlight.
Barricaded by ice.
Hunters have come for me. I watched them
gobble up
sisters, a brother,
and the woman who birthed me.

I stayed, under rocks, under dirt,
for sixteen years. I washed myself
in sin,
couldn’t come clean.
Stained with nights that smothered me
in the devils
chest hairs.

My hair grew to the length of
a woman. Sweeping me
out from
the dirt, standing me on
one foot,
then two.

Then, my breasts grew,
not much larger,
but wiser!

For some time, I lived out
dull
nightmares.
Screaming in sleep.
Silent during the dull day.
Grinding coffee beans
with quiet grips of rage.

I sliced each strand of woman from
my head,
became a man. I cut tears out of my arms
till I forgot how to
cry,
smashed my head heavy till
I forgot
everything else…

except that the world is gray.

My hair has grown back out
to the size of a woman
and my breasts haven’t grown
anything but heavy,
in a heavy body,
in a heavy gray body.

Devil Bruise

I gave my husband bruises to
plaster me with.
Bare boned, I have pleaded with
double edged devils
to spare me from
fingers engulfed in flame.

But, the fire comes. Twisting
my insides out, wringing
leftover drops
of love
out,
to drip down drains,
to suffocate.

Permeation takes place. Fresh
becomes stale,
gross.

Like wedding cake.
Like a bride’s bouquet.

Like stiff shoulders daring a
husband to come close.