In truth, I open my eyes.
I am punished
for my power.
I have refused water to dry people
and tied anchor to those who heard the word
and believed it.
I became a burning flame in
bedrooms of strange
men, who desire reward
like Corinthians say they deserve.
I am a sin by nature,
by thought,
by curve,
and undeserving.
I open my eyes.
I am power.
It is true.
I have let callous hands
unzip my heavy breath,
free me of metal,
cold restraint.
I have talked to wind
chimes short of frost,
of shine, and let
windy hands slap falling
leaves off
their easy limbs.
I have laid in blue bed
skies, covering mortality
with surging white mass;
pillows for eager
eyeballs. I popped each blue ball,
socket clean of collagen,
of cell, blackbirds emerging,
fleeting,
feeding on my sight.
What they must have seen!
What images must be coursing through
silk ebony feathers!
It is, surely, enough to take
a blackbirds
sight,
enough to pluck wispy wings
from a torrid
feathered friend.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 