You have said it before, you have said it again;
that butcher knife you throw at me in hopes to win
the Civil War. It’s about an infant, the crash and
death of girlhood dreams, an umbilical cord to
hang myself with like my departed cousin.
It’s something I cannot physical offer, and every
time you mention it I feel like an abortion clinic:
cold, sterile, a burning cap of bleach down my
esophagus which poisons my veins. I am, after all,
the ruined potential of hand-me-downs.
But what you don’t know is I’ve dreamed of
being a father and not some worn down mule
who collapses beneath a colorful arc, and I have
named these babies Lily and Brent; I sometimes
sing of them like a carol.
Perhaps my best option is to dig around in
the dumpster and find one who is plastic,
sign it over legally and let it devour my heart
as my sister consumed yours. That would be
an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
You remind me that I’ll never know about the
magic of fairies or feel the warmth of my own flesh
and blood like a soft pillow. I never did commit
suicide, but the idea kills me a hundred times and
I have felt smaller than a zygote.
Sometimes it’s a nauseating mobile above my
head, always turning with its crank music and
stars and moons out of reach. It’s a diaper I’ll never
change, feces and formula I’ll never smell, and this
damn compartment closes in.
Or sometimes it is like a revolver, the cylinder
spins and spins; there are no blanks, just wasted
gun powder and a soldier who kneels before the
temple of seeds. Could he be a father of needs,
or will he remain a temporary daddy?
The one night care, the sleeper who wakes
and never stays, the one of many that walk on
ice and slide from my covers. If by chance
Hell freezes over and he stays to grow a garden,
would Heaven approve that he isn’t a mother?
As always, the relentless cry of words make the
heart stop beating for a second and cracks form
where my love can never be given. Instead of
nursery rhymes I am drowning in a sea where
maternal requiems churn violently.
And hearing those words is the same as opening
my rib cage and letting all that is left spew onto
the floor, and believe it or not, it’s pulled the
salt from my lids, the mucus from nostrils and
left my throat sore from screaming at God.
Maybe his plan is for me to bury my seed in a
flesh tulip without touch, without passion,
without love, but through an addict’s key to happiness;
the way farmers line up cows and inject them
to bare more calves to milk.
And so it seems that my destiny is to stand beside
my statue of an abomination and hold the stone
in my pale, weak arms. Whatever it is, know that
beating a dead horse only peels back the inevitable
and it’s a senseless attack that kills me.
— November 1st, 2016