October Thirteenth

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Your eyes have roots in my mouth

Your flushed cheeks have breathed hot air into

my ears

I sit at the feet of those with weathered lots

But, my flesh is standing

Pacing, itching, beating my chest

with loose ends

Later I find,

Your documenting hands have held still the earth

Your darkness has dove into the pit of my stomach

I sit like the one who feels

Feeling the stories of others

But wonder will it ever be mine alone

The scenes, the characters, the deep-seated, freely given expressions of

a felt life

So I will

prick me with ink,

cut off my hair,

strike my wrists from untold pages of separation,

and wail wildly at my homemade wall

Then I ask,

Who is this for?

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Filed under Anger, art, beauty