wraparound
maybe it’s in the breath of It,
how even menthol-wrapped,
He can put life to it with
a well-placed sigh,
our arc a paper-thin thing under His hands,
His tears forming an ocean
mingled with the liquor, and the blood,
and the sweat, and a semblance of a
prayer, poured into
His Being(s)
He still doesn’t get it,
being born to die in a way
you don’t get to write,
how He could decide when you
kick it, and you would never see it coming, the smoky taste something too much,
His breath in a bit too quick–
did you anger Him?
when you question,
how His son’s blood could bear
to be wine, to be consumed, when He
seemed to lap every drop,
hangover in their home,
the bread and butter of it
And He’ll sacrifice cigarettes on
the wraparound porch,
suburbia,
butts between the slats,
He’d much prefer this,
the dinginess of it,
what He built for us,
because motel beds don’t need
broken in
They don’t need to be explained to,
They’ll live with it.
mothering
you have not been “yourself”,
been eaten by the passing
of something– time, maybe
fickle mistress
you asked for a sign, or a vision
you didn’t see the fissures
a shared dream
an omen for
i picked your casket, lined plum plush
and you thought it washed you out
so you sacrificed your nails, dug
through,
to something that could be considered
earth
do you dream, still? when nothing lights that mind,
no sun to seep in,
do sepia-tinted minutes slip past,
coherence no concern,
slide on your sunday shoes,
when i grew, did you wish
that i bore you?
could i teach you gentleness?
To care for your body as a home,
not a house,
to breath life to your love,
to raise a daughter?
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