Spinal cords of ruptured peonies build archways towards north, towards blue walls of stagnated inhales. This is not the roof of my home, this is not mine, but I unequivocally possess it.   When lightning split the cherry tea, everything became a tombstone of light, of burnt fruit and cracked loaves of bread. Did you know how to woo in the storms? Language forsake your body like a helpless vessel, yet, the garden outside wavered in something of its undeadness, rain tearing flesh from bark and bone, until dome nests from the meadowlarks lay on the porch like offerings, like payment, except you never cared about collections. An unforgiving pink dawn stripped our bodies down, raw like venison, sliced open as fish bellies, with new children sliding onto the table, little suns against a hardwood sky— our fingers numbly tried to scoop up the orphans, pressing them through each other’s teeth. We wanted to eat phosphorous babies, we wanted our tongues to become fire and unviewable, able to burn holes into the cornea of any man who might try and look upon us, upon our pressed-against mouths. Even if we tried to make a home, all the willow trees have weak branches that our thighs can no longer hang from like they used to, we have become too heavy, and aimless as we watched our fingers disappear into each other, the tattoo of a rattler on your wrist rhythmically swaying, as the wind outside bent the curtains inwards, twisting as upset organs, knowing our fathers never wanted us in this place, in any place at all.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.