my life was full of
lingering malignance
but it had no teeth to
finish me.

worshiped the undoing but was
a butcher of a scribe.
I often sat near a window,
figuring out ways to explain 31 years of minor
dysthymia    blame
        irritation with a certain human’s gaze
without a single person
to hold me
or pet me
or hang me,
and endlessly typing but
never the right word to describe the way
fog sits on your skull and
whispers sweet tauntings til dawn
while you’re wide awake
and then a second passes and it’s a
 stranger on the sidewalk,
7:45 am and all bad dreams,
black, cooling coffee and you forgot your gloves,
long day ahead shouldering pain
(it’s only 17 degrees by now)
stepping on your path
with a grimace and nicotine breath
(and he has fresh coffee with cream)
 asking you to
with some minor
as you abide
but  incorrectly
so he asks again,

less politely,
with a knee in your side
and a prod in his pants,
and some yellow teeth
to finish
 but I’m a woman.


 fertile and always incensed
so things come around but

                            you’re so mad all the time, Sarah

 nothing ever sticks
unless it dies inside of me
and exorcises itself  all over the cotton I
shoved inside to keep from howling.
 (I don’t want to be found)
my whole life incomplete without a
broom or a dick in my hand;
sweep up all of  the shit we left
trying to sort some mirrors out,
see what is yours and what is mine and
what doesn’t sit well between us we can throw out
or shatter
or swallow and
let it  (scream!) die inside of us,
birth a yowl every twenty eight days
and blame it on something else.
and then you can wait five more and
get on top and
get off and
whip with me with my stitches and
whisper sweet tauntings til dawn before you
hang me as a whore or
hang me as a  witch.
             why don’t you hang your head here, bitch?
my whole life dotted with trespass:


stop me on the street and
make a declaration,
comment on my gait,
ask for an emotion,
watch me fumble with car keys and
come closer,
start to whisper and use those hands
as if I hear better in
light fingers trailing up my back.
bend to my womb
without prayer or altar
and expect me to lie down
in offer,
call me queen and
(well, you’d make a fine gazelle)
make ceremony of their heralding:
hang me over their closet,
rarely adorned or dusted,
and never a lamp to
light me so I just sit there in darkness,
(I just sit here in darkness),
the victim of self seeking worship.

 but it’s nice to have something sweet to
press palms to every once in awhile
especially when the soul starts to feel violent
and you need a quick kneel! to help quell
the carnage.
or they wait til I’m asleep and just
shove it inside of me,
keep that vagina from howling,
(we don’t want to be found)

walking arsenal, I have infinite resentments and
(I say I’d make a fine lioness)
nothing but time and
(that means a predilection to stalk)
a connection to God that is
are you there, God?
 unwavering and

I worship in private:
palms pressed to
black magic, pious riot.
I hold his gaze
and really,
I’m a woman of course.
(I see a dead gazelle walking towards me)
I don’t need a cock
or a gun
to destroy you.




(draft from 1/2017)

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