(no subject)
daughters of an unmade bed
your torso will not sink tonight
mother, seventeen years removed
where will you go when your arms cannot move
when your legs cannot push you on the ground
your eyes barely revolving now
seamstress, knit yourself a cloak
a sheath, a wreath, a rosary, a joke
and lay your body on the stinging embers
of lost love and faithful friends' found letters
(two children, one a firmer skull
the other, older, wiser and dull
no edge of which to speak, no charm
no subtlety in the motion of your arm)
wine, wine, scarlet and full of espers
they've been dragging my body since past november
and I can't quite reign in or temper
some loss I've left unchecked
they lowered you in, a satin-y grin
spread across your cheeks, layed into them thin
almost painted on, not quite etched in
I haven't paid attention
much less paid my respects
(a king, a king! a happy crown!
a flowery dance, a flowing gown!
oh, to lower her, lower her down,
where the devil is waiting, lower her down.)
now quiet roots in all things sitting
makes your daughters rise, alone and pretty
makes your daughters rise, in a fallen city
at the sight of planes, you were giddy, giddy
FAST, fly out, out of your stable
horses, positions! bodies able
seventeen heads at the dinner table
crooked posture and hateful
and hateful and hateful