Myself; as a makeshift statue-
the concrete that made up my womb
was warm and thick
and I recall choking on my tongue
when you gently sloped into me

I could feel my mother weeping for my muddy soul,
counting my sins on her clean fingertips
sobbing each time
I spun creases
into your skin
and sheets.

My form is fierce, as
I pull whiteness from your soft gums
numbing the evident longing for
someone who does not have your face.

I know no heaven or hell
when I'm shooting angels
from the rippled ceilings
and spliting their wings
with my harsh lips.

Slow your breathing, mother.
I never allow the aftermath to occur.

Worry not.

I wallow,
but always
remain
hollow.

05/01/2004

Posted on 05/01/2004
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