Tuesday, March 15, 2011


And I will lay in the bathwater of my own guilty admissions.
Washed but not pure.
Blank slate to be reflected on in the swamp of my sins and missteps.
Mother, I am so numb.
What are these? These arms and breasts
And legs all tombstone white,
All cages, all temple.
My belly rising from the cloudy murk, infant
Distended and swollen with womanhood
The crashing jangles of what I am and am not.
Show me the way,
You said you would once.

These are my hands, my ears, the curve of my hip
And the birthmark
You noted on the day I was born.
Have I ever been so perfect?
So trusting?
So utterly demanding and unassuming?

But I am not captain of this ship,
No commander to my destiny.
Still falling, still making these deadly mistakes.

You once said I was all wind, all trust, all impulse
set to wondering.
And you had always known…
Can you blame me?
Can you blame me for it all?

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