There's a dark, gratifying leer
a garish song with doubting lyrics
there's
a eulogy, a poem
inside your withered
open palms.

There'll be the girl you're waiting for
and she'll be silk and damselfly
all lacewing epitaphs and sliteyes
staring up from the undersides
of ivory bones
of marrowtusks
and quiet like a geisha
oh, so quiet
like temperance
or stone.

And I can see it there
your body all quivering
inside your sheepsuit lies
her lamb's-cry, while the beast devours-
the unzip of all that cheap disguise.
It's there
inside those hollowedeyes
epiphany, slamming the ground
far away, inside of your manger
in desolate, desolate
Bethleham.

You'll watch her belly swell
and hold your hand to that creamy white pachyderm skin
and sigh and smile: immaculate...
you'll sleep with them there in your arms.

But what if the baby's
all pink
and new
like the Father

was.

02/17/2006

Author's Note: I don't know where it came from or how much is realy but it kicked and fought to get out.

Posted on 02/17/2006
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia