If you love and open the wound your heart is someone will pour black oil into it--
I have wept and I have raged: is this not true of us, we who feel too keenly, so that we are pierced by the merest whisper. I would like to have stones in my breast, not flesh, not the pale weak flesh so readily seared by innuendos. I would like not to rise up like a
Matriarch owl, my wings beating over you who live by wounding and cowardice. For lo, I am utterly sick of being a wound, sick to death of death and the smell of death and rain and the promise of rain only to have the sick sun beat down and parch the earth. I would love to be a clock, inanimate yet ticking away the time. Or a bomb that did some good, if
There were such a bomb, like safely moving a collapsed house off a child even if it cost me my life. Or someone on fire with self-belief, who has not collected all of her tears like sapphires in a velvet box or hour on hour, blunders on even though the shadows feel like white loving arms and the water waits in wanton green allure.
2. Big Top
Move on to the next thing that looks like a safehouse where people cry like mallards with their eyes shot out—come on in. But check your brain at the door. You think that sounds dangerous. But you sit down and for a time there is love in the air like a peppermint smoke from smoldering soy candles that winds around everyone and little hearts float from
Their mouths. Everyone takes out laptops and begins to like like like each other with little thumb icons.What a world you think, driving away down the long tongue of the road, the curling grasshopper tongue that loves to strike. You expected it would be a safe world but the days rock on so aimlessly, barges of day veering and listing in the harbor and people
And their dreams falling overboard. Finally you rent a bunker and keep the business of caring about anyone at a minimum. You’re so broken, and no new body cast, no nurses or doctors to drill in and replace the snapped pins of the swollen leg or revive the tired heart. No water, no heat, no power.
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011