There was grief in the last time I was myself
long-faced, retroussé nose, thick hair
broad shouldered from swimming away
cutting through water, weightless
not carrying your stare, your aprobation, your disregard
if ignored, let us ignore better, make an art of failure
suck the pipe, squeeze the last drop, inject, pop
those blue pills, as blue as you made me feel
psychiatry says nobody can make you feel anything
you choose
did you choose to feel nothing and by nothing
cause my center to crush softly inward
like the river flowers we press in our books
before you were born
carried over generation from generation
I laid in the grass wondering why
no lover had sought to please me
and the boughs of the trees revealed themselves
as my hand wandered back and forth
drenched in sweat
for who can satisfy a tin box with its lid hammered shut
who can know the heart of a girl who is told before she can walk
she isn’t enough, she’ll never be near sufficient
then you walked out of the river
green and shining like forested afterbirth
you did not care about forms and structure
spelling and photographic reproduction
you had a tongue and eyes and hands
like a thought with action
you claimed me beneath alders and pine
stretching so high, embracing unseen faith
I became a woman that day
crying out beneath your stones and mud and lillies
as white as an urge
with pink in the center
craving to crest in sun
and fall wilted back into water
TheFeatheredSleep 