pushing your syllables up the stairs,
signs of fingers and fools appear,
the bellyaches are minuscule in scale,
a dusty heartache in the morning wind.
it’s fever in deep this woman’s work desiring,
shaking sins off skins of her washcloths,
ropes and marks on hard steel memory,
lights bend down the vigor of the night.
weeping the water to it’s embellishment,
the daughters are singing up fires in hell,
old bruising the knees in trees agility,
severing ties from the ground she walks.
grass stains backwards alive with feelers,
she inks out the moon in the bedroom,
placentas and gardens and bloom of daisy,
the cutters are living inside of her head.
teeth are conceiving her savagery in eden,
monsters are eating of voices and breathing,
a quiet cement wall in the basement has cracks,
remembers she must go and fill them.
songs are the mother’s invention of poison,
she hides in a floorboard made one day for her,
days bleed the night like a mirror in cold weather,
her name scribbled angry when frost hits her gown.
building the sand castle forest in daylight,
her hands are in flames from the jellyfish dreams,
running for mercy in the solace of tangents,
the cries are gibberish to anyone at home.
devils are mortals in push-up bra sizes,
flirting together the mean birds of prey,
shining the wounds in her pure acid flesh,
time couldn’t heal the pain in her eyes.
the stairs spiral pronouns and bitch late at night,
your figure is speaking from heavens oak door,
see it’s always the one knock then it opens,
tears from her belly as you ache it once more.
fancy a drink in the late hours again,
failing a heartbeat as the skip beats her brain,
a soft winter coat is moving her footsteps,
to the outside world and a means to an end.
(C)2004/revised 2012 Christopher E. Vaughn