I want this thing gone.
no.
so many years have gone
by and these spines are
razor sharp from your
diamond stone tongue,
growing and
ready to write
you.
“backbones”
there is no difference
between love and liberation
and some were born saints,
you say as you help me
in the mugwort bath,
the smell of rose and geranium
circling the tile.
I plucked the petals and dropped them
one by one for aesthetic.
not free of indulgence, but
patient your fingers make
stems in the water
and I guess I am waiting
for something.
“the swell”
freedom will teach you how
to stay in all new ways.
when we are wayward
or won’t marry them
or stand up when they
crush our necks and they
say the rope is coming next.
we should be
stuffing our faces with the meat they provided,
learning fillet knives,
learning to skin hides,
smiling like shovels and
burying them.
we lack vision.
we just paint our nails black,
and dress like witches,
talk shit;
start shit for derision.
and we keep turning to our men
for forgiveness.
sometimes things just go away
like missing pieces
and love?
I want this thing gone
so I can be empty with my tea
and good ideas,
alone.
give it to me, God
can be a risky request.
and
did you know,
the bones given a soft lick
will sparkle white
like fresh-caught ivory
and once it feels the brush of
mouth
will file any joint to tip
with tooth
and gore the things that touches
it, that holds it
near to chest or
safely in its palm?
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