Poetry

Carved out of your body 

Without your permission: 

A blessing, you were told. 

Carry him, watch him die 

And thank him for it. 

You compact yourself 

Into a quiet, rugged ball 

So your baby can yell. 

Why must you close your eyes 

So that he can see? 

Mary, you look so small. 

Frail legs tangled together, 

Curves hidden by garments 

Heavy as his cross, so heavy 

You do not dare stand. 

Is this what you wanted? 

To balance precariously upon a stone 

Legs crushed, blinded – 

So he could sit comfortably 

For thousands of years? 

Caress his feet, let him see for you, 

Let him point to the sky. 

Hold him above your head 

And watch the world 

Hallucinate his wings. 

Tell me, mother – 

Do you regret being so pure?

The tree stands stoic and waiting

For nobody but itself

It breathes in and out

Visible in the morning fog

Its scandalous activities from the night

Evident in the dew on blades of grass

The tree dances as the wind whispers 

Giggles and gossip through its leaves

Rainfall coming as a gift 

Instead of a curse

At dusk the sun burns the tree with 

Its fiery kisses

Leaving no doubt of who truly owns the land

The sun 

A mistress leaving gifts for  

A wife to find

The tree begins the long and dark night

Breathes in the moonlight and thanks

The sun for all her gifts of day

But the tree continues to wait 

For no one 

But itself

The skyscrapers skin the blissful blue out of the cityscape 

and I try to escape the looming cloud raining red droplets. 

Stiff in the precipitation, I run towards you–towards nothing. 

The edges of the buildings are as sharp as my banter 

when I first laid my eyes on you in the crystal snow. 

The heavens stain my white dress, as if I spilled red wine. 

Maroon snakeskin boots don’t bode well in the monsoon, 

so the heel cracks like a stabbed back. 

Pedestrians poke their heads 

out of shattered windows, whispering about the mess 

my life possesses in the shadows of the city. 

None offer me sympathy or shelter, so I hobble towards your home. 

The color red runs deep through your driveway, like a marathon, 

I stagger my steps. As I approach your padlocked front door, 

I hear hammering through your thin walls and wastedly wonder 

Are you building an ark to save me from the storm? 

My bleeding heels sink into your soggy dormant 

until I sink alongside it, choking on red runoff– 

I drowned knocking on heaven’s door.