My heart is tethered
between wrought iron
and quick tempers
In the house, a man was waiting:
silver skin, sharp chin
eating the remains with his corbeau mouth
My cloaked heart slips through the gate,
and past March, April, June
my palms are stained with the smell of rust,
dust and rotting wood under my tongue,
unopened mail behind each rib
What's heavy will hurt.
I took a small boat away
Half way there
I lost my oars
(abandoned)
Flung and tossed like a child
into the channel
"Are you afraid of what's below?"
you're just froth below the horizon.
you're just a speck in time
The dark whale should swallow me whole,
but instead I lay my head in the day's end,
like resting on warm thighs
My mother's own.
