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