The Box

My soul has hands that feed my mouth
delight boxes marked “poison”.
I have second hands that are language.

I gave up youth for silent lips that
spread too thick. Two plump
pulsating cream puffs injected
with secrecy.

The boxes piled up to a thousand acreage;
a still wall with a calm face,
sipping tea with the Queen of servitude.
I have become a slave to iron curtains
and black rods.

Once upon a decade ago, I slept with
meaty warriors with bull-dog ears.
They carried sturdy death machines that
slaughtered innocence.
I heard them slice my siblings
to hamburger, while my stable body hid
in a homosexual bed.

I bled out of my ears for one tight night,
then woke up to the funerals.
I faced a casket with strawberry frosting
trim, small china pieces laid across
the mahogany lid.

I tipped with warriors, drinking their poison,
swallowing fear in full, single gulps.
They offered me a butchering tool
and I pulled it in, deep through
tissue and cartilage, into the warm cherry
pie that was wrapped inside my body.

I melted with metal. I succumbed to
murderous beasts that carry
angry weapons,
and without useful hands,
or mouth,
I became a box.

Frozen Pond

I have no room of my own. My carpet
was eaten by a vacuum with cold, blue
eyes.

It was January when kitchen plates
shattered. My diamond party,
shattered.
My calm-moon baby,
shattered.

I took her down stairs,
three times to
the snow.  We walked.

To an icy snow pond. Cold
like those eyes we left
three flights up, alone, with a balcony
and needles filled with snow.

We did not skip.
We did not hold hands.
We held breath and
walked into the pond.

I only had two hearts
because she had
one
of her own. Deep pink.
Beating on her own.

Deep.
Deeper.
Through sharp water cold.
Piercing cartilage, straight
through bone.

We gazed through crystal, an open
body,
singing laws of the nameless,
her,
freezing within me.

It is May now, plates have been cleared.
Cuts have scarred
deeper than bone. We are froze in that pond, but I have only one heart now.

I am alone.