cunt. bomb.
Coming Soon: February 2019
The Mother, Part II
Yes, the strong gets more while the weak ones fade. 
-Billie Holiday

I don’t want to write this poem. Not the 
way it will ultimately tell the truth, but I never 
could lie when I write. I wished I could.
Wished I could pluck the sweet grass from 
the altar and light it’s dead body without second 
thought. But everytime I produce flame between 
my fingertips I think of all the ways in which you
have died or not died all these years. I have become
less obtuse and more reliant upon easy narrative 
and directness of image. Symbol. I wish I could
have lied and written us a sugar cake. Baked a 
wish out of thin air, and hair and bird bones. 
Instead I lament through prose. Squeeze the ink 
of the teeth and pay my therapist’s monthly bill. 
I pluck the words from a zippered mouth. Watch 
the blood dry in the corners of crooked lip. Pick 
scabs as a hobby. The words keep coming though.
And I would love you more if you would ever let me.
But you are an iron cage wearing a smile.
A woman’s too-tightly-wound coat. Your 
love is something I could never place.