September 1, 2013 § Leave a comment

Faces, blotched red and cooing. Thick fingers prodding at my beginning; I know not what this is and I miss the darkness. The home that held my self.

Sounds spill angry.

There’s something I want, but for all the faces, I cannot find it.

These sounds grow louder; sounds belong to me now. The ring of faces parts and light pours like sound and another face comes close. I see nothing else. This weary one with the light fingers is what I wanted.

Big hands are kinder, too, but the sounds still pour in confusion. Light is everywhere and I miss the darkness.

Momma, when will she stop crying? 

I’m a compilation, recomposed by new circumstances. I see through the beginning of myself and everything that washes about inside. The sounds don’t belong to me anymore, but the hands are still kind. When everything inside rushes up my throat in a burning wall of liquid to pour off my lips and down the backs of the weary ones, the hands are still kind.

Daddy, is she going to die? 

The fury of rejection erodes my beginning and I pulse and shake until there’s nothing left to expel and still the tremors shudder hotly through me. The hands never leave, they only trade off. In the faces of the weary ones I see my emptiness burning them, too.

Maybe Christmas will make her feel better. Can we unwrap presents? 

The brightness of bows and lights shimmer to promise something.  I hide in the softness that holds me and feel desperation burning hot, with the whiteness outside and aching within. But the hands bring the whiteness inside. It’s cool and sweet on my acrid tongue.

Momma, can I have some? 

Faces are hopeful and I’ve a bow in my hands. I find its end and twist my fingers round, knowing my beginning in a warm yellow light that shimmers with bells. I know memory and it burns, but here is the cool sweetness and light from my weary ones.






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