by educated peasant
The coming of fat moons twists me blue and still.
Unclear, rising from bed, I forget. Hips ribs fleshy
I want to feel safe. My tiny palms fitting in my father’s
Hands perfectly. Windowless walls, lying prone,
Listening close to lines. I know why she did it.
I think of becoming a jew or a nun standing atop
A red roof, cackling, I am afraid. Clouds fall out,
Lift towards the sun, warm, as I sit open in dreams,
In a place where barefoot is soft and green. Potions
Fill fainting slugs, I call limbs, pressing me into black
Ground, closer to the pearly worms, truthful tongues.
Pound, pound, feeling memory I jones for will.
Choice becomes bottled wind strung up in white
ribbons. I want my fill. I want my fill.