sticks to my skin like God whistling in the garden,
the parent who already knows
you've done something dreadfully wrong.
At this point, I would take ashes of the oak fire,
crush them on my forehead,
call the shadows to come in the early afternoon
when I could wrap a shawl around my shoulders,
put on another sweater and a pair of socks
to escape this misery.
Sleep decays before I put my head on the pillow
and growls like an angry cat
and the deep ache of an aging shoulder
when three a.m. stares me in the face
while I wait for the sun to heat up the sky
melting all hope for relief.
Even the hum of the fan
brings me to the edge of madness
after so many storms
of not wanting to touch anything;
anyone.
The prayer forgets
the meaning of repentance
when all you can see is damnation.
No comments:
Post a Comment