(no subject)

[quieteye]

Omega

What kind of Hell is this
you scream at us as we try to stick needles into your arms,
already florid with the purple, papery slicks of yesterday’s blood.

You thrash, untamable - you are suddenly

Pan Gu,
throwing this way and that the shell that
has kept you trapped for untold years and in the
doing you creat the firmament and
the undulating course of history;
or

Nu Wa
your left leg, truncated just below the
knee, wrapped in a serpentine question around
your right, stamping resolutely on the
shifting sheets,
or maybe one of the

Dragon Kings -
sexless as the older gods tended to be, as they were
before the minds of men meddled with their
energetic eternities, carving genitals where there had
been only rain before - writhing and bringing
earthquakes and rains.

Your hands have been tied to the sides of the bed,
clever double-reef knots
that cannot be loosened even with the
most evocative tears -
to protect you, we mumble uselessly -
but your daughters understand:
maybe they too are used to being scratched
as they try to feed you your
life-saving minerals.

This Hell, auntie, is the Hell you’ve always known -
the one you fell into the day
your eyes, already cloudy with age and the
syrup of disease, abandoned you
and you were left to elucidate the rest of
your collapsing-star world with the
numb, tapering ends of your fingers -

this Hell is one of plastic and wheels, of
an endless procession of numbers,
of all your prayer beads disappearing like the chemical
drops pouring into your veins.