ribbons in your hair
where
little dead things grow.
salt the scabs
it's
the only pain you know.
your heart here
in their hands
like mist.
the knot there
is a
fist
that grows every time
you take air.
every lung full
every beating hand upon
your chest.
the trouble stains.
small mouths
asking
for help.
all the time
you're rendered
like fat
from the slab.
they can't help the
hate,
the dismay,
the trembling
at night beneath the sheets
like the odor of sex
caught upon your lips.
the fingers that get under it all,
feeling away the tender parts,
they look like broken
ribs standing at attention
across bloody fields,
marching forward
through the great war within.
the great war and the
generations it
consumes.
harps strummed for the dead.
creation seems so far away.
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