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Who's there? |
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Who's there? |
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And I remember |
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Flashes of laughter |
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And lunatics |
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Seductive propaganda |
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Scrolling across my mind |
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Like guerrilla cinema. |
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Belts and wooden spoons |
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Flies in the afterbirth |
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And crawling on linoleum kitchens |
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And cracked porcelain sinks stuffed with |
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Dirty dishes. |
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The early morning anxiety of grade-school dark stockings to hide curses. |
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Secret friends and festive holidays |
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And everyone in their |
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Sunday best |
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Pretending to like each other. |
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For generations and generations of |
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Sad mistakes. |
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Stealing away in the dead of night to |
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Escape the stiff jawed henchmen in the hungry trucks |
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Of an angry landlord miles and miles away. |
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Impatient and understanding |
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Waking on the side of the road |
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Hissing radiator hoses cracked like |
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Burned skin. |
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Days so hot the nuclear holocaust would've felt like |
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Siberian blizzard. |
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And I remember |
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The first time |
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I felt it alive inside me |
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Turning the dead weight |
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Moving within the folds of its winged embrace |
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Opening and sliding those black feathers |
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Inches at a time. |
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Those feet |
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Pushing and digging into the membrane |
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To find its comfort or to relieve pressure from one of those stagnant staces |
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Where one of its limbs had gone numb. |
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And I remember night |
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Listening to it hum |
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Feeling it move in its mysteries |
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Cleaning its feathers for hours |
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And I remember this |
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And I know |
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I never had a chance. |
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There's never any escaping it. |
