a broken egg spills down my girl uterus
making its way into the bath
amongst gold flecks,
tension, and salt.
and I think, why not this?
why not a sun-burned thigh stopped
halfway at the knee
like a cup of brown sugar
tamped down and ready for baking?
East of Eden lies on the white tile floor
--poetry amid dirt and water--
reminding me of a man
who seemed to ward off all things excess and untrue
like a firewalker untouched by the flame.
life is poetry,
he seemed to say with every simple phrase.
He scorched the truth out of the wilderness
with grace.
No comments:
Post a Comment