#worm.poem

you stab an angel and he doesn't bleed

not until you make the transfusion:

knowledge of the fruit

from one vessel to another

make of him an earthly body

dragging him

     down

                down

                             down

into the filth of your freedom

and pollute him with the absurd idea

that his hands are his own

make of the divine unfeeling

a bruised, beaten, bleeding heart

that trembles through its pulpy rhythm

tied to yours through the bars of your cages

sinew tangled and trapped

like tongues behind teeth

it bleeds so that yours may beat

until his memory is cast, is created

in the shape of his own palm

and all that remains of him

is what you gave to him

you stab an angel and he doesn't bleed

not until you teach him how,

Lavender It is dark in here. Another faceless girl with freezing hands Pressed between the hangers and coats beside me I look through the keyhole and see the shadow of wings I press my ear to the door and hear the hymn of my heart I want. To break it apart like a piece of myself And chase the hearth-like warmth That bleeds through the splintered wood

pater noster

son, do you know of an unwillingly sainted mother and a father both god and shepherd?

which little lamb are you, my child? he who is baptised in blood or blessed with a bruise?

boy, tell me the difference between the sacrifice and the slaughterer.

tiny holy fires

what do i know of divinity?

but that it's separate from me

when i hold out my empty hands

and ask God to touch them, bless them

to make me feel, to make me know

anything anything anything

other than the absence of Him

and my prayers don't sing of devotion

but of the skull piercing thorns

that tell me i must pray, i need to pray

i need to feel clean and to feel clean

is to feel holy and to feel holy

is to feel whole

and maybe my stigmata dreams at seventeen

were nothing of a calling at all

and maybe the bloody holes in my hands

are myth of my own suffering

and maybe the stars are tiny holy fires

cleansing the night with their burning glory

and her tongue acted the lance of longinus

when she said my pain was selfish

but maybe there was truth in the wound

that says my hurt is sanctimonious

and deep in the church that i named for myself,

stands a stained glass window of a 3 year old boy

and he's tugging on the vicar's vestment

and he's asking him to be baptised next

pleading like he knows, begging like he knows

that he needs to be bathed and anointed and purified with

holy light, divine light, cleaning, burning, mercy of light

before self-made lances and thorns and nails

and holes in head and hands

flood God from his small, soft body

and send Him away

“garfield hates mondays”, you tell me as i watch the sunrise stretch its golden greeting across the star-flecked skin that melts into mine, and your mirthful eyes dancing across the wrinkled page lips soft and twisting into childlike glee

i wonder, what the feline could hate about awakening to a sun-gilded lover, and his molten slide of desire under crisp, linen sheets about coffee-soaked kisses stolen over chipped mugs and a 20 year old newspaper crossword puzzle and further i wonder, what could he hate, about the promise of a plan, a promise of all day about effervescent ache of a chest shaken with laughter, the june light over my son, your brother and his wife-to-be and the sizzle of hot dogs and beer in the breeze

So maybe this town slowes you down for a little while Maybe you let it. And maybe you let her smile wash you in sunlight for a moment And you allow your hands and mouths meet in the sweet warm honey of fervent youth And you think, this is how it always should've been. Milkshakes and movies type deal. I’ll call you tonight? Yeah, I’d like that. Dating. Staying.

So in between shaking breaths and bright bursts of giggles You allow yourself to confess the things you'd never dare let slip You tell her about the gun you keep under your pillow And the scars you keep under your shirt She counts your freckles as she wipes your tears And she recounts her own dejections- More than the creases of her smile would ever tell you. More than she deserves. You trace her dimples and chase them with kisses Until she laughs with enough warmth to melt early spring snow. I could get used to this. Staying.

So now here you lay, Flushed and dazed in the balmy heat of summer Your lover and your confidante, Your best friend made in a string-of-spit pact Pressed against you under clean cotton sheets