Sunday, January 28, 2007

The Saint of Difficult Furniture

my sister understood your language
she paid her toll ripped out her own
eyes rather than see the devil

cut out her tongue when she was going
to speak ill of our father

I still stumble bruise my palms
when I cross her bridge a handful of red hair
caught in the broken guardrail

I start out small just a tiny letting
of blood from the ankles
with a dull knife

I know suffering pleases you I know it’s how
we show we’re true pure as the hum
of a fresh bucket of milk

the blood forms little
pools at my feet

your words are about
to fling themselves from my tongue

like footprints, dark and wet,
climbing a golden ladder
out of this dirt back yard


Anonymous said...

I really like the part about the red hair caught in the broken guardrail.

Anonymous said...

. . . leaving a little DNA as we do it . . .

Christine said...

Thanks, Bobby and Valerie.

This one's been rewritten nearly to death.