I made myself a promise I can’t keep
to stay steady, even in times of grief
not obey my gut and flee, bare-foot
into thick forest where birds
never rebuke
not to climb from shaking boat
wet wood and mold, scarred paint and
many gentle hands
cupping despair in her once tree lined womb
ever tempted to fling off effort
abandon the temple of people and their
admonishments
those truthful kindnesses flung back in reproach
by those who have no use of you
standing like husks by the road
waiting to snag your heart to shreds.
The woman across the road lifts her shirt
stuck slightly with glue from hospital monitors
a strange gel they affix electrodes to
when they’re getting ready to cut
she fills her chest with the congestion of the late hour
burning in filament
like fire birds finding song in dark
her dream is to be whole again
not lopsided, scarred in rivet and rent flesh
by hands that delved into her bones.
All my life I have observed
cruelty and condemnation in
its varied shadow forms
and marveled at how, little we pay attention to
the necessity and sincerity of kindness
instead we humiliate it
as if we were telling a child;
stop crying, stop being a blubber mouth, grow up
get some backbone, stand up for yourself, fight back!
Mistrusting those who stoop
to pick up your fallen groceries,
ask how you are, give what they can
though it be imperfect, irritating to
the red welt of anger surging in
collective consciousness, waiting to strike
who needs gaslighting? When we have
a veritable volcano, ready to turn
hearts into stone.
I knew a child once, who
fought well, she wore split lips like this seasons color
and her eyes saw in the dark
wishing to change the indifference she observed
when adults stepped on toys and did not
mend their breakage
that same child grew up into a flawed but kind adult
who wished many times
she wore a thicker armor
for the chill of strangers
has never borne fruit nor become easier,
as if you wore
sewn neatly to your chest
a scarlet letter
made of nothing more than
the dye of words
that look so very much
like blooding
(blood•ing (blud′ing), n. [Chiefly Brit.] British Terms (in fox hunting) an informal initiation ceremony in which the face of a novice is smeared with the blood of the first fox that person has seen killed).
Imagine hostilities
TheFeatheredSleep 