the world is pale and unpeeled,
a bright opal waxing brilliant in your black palm.
a little mirror-stone to remind us of our modern, ticking blood.
or, if its surface is cloudy and squelching, veined and variable,
maybe what we've got here is an ulcer,
a martyr-flash in a new bedpan.
or here comes a good portrait of earth-- gangling
hair and limbs uncleaned for weeks,
unemployed to the point of being potbellied;
the medieval christ up to his wrists in dirty shrivels of turnips and cabbage.
we saints are headless but for an ever-widening throathole,
out-gorging the hungry in hopes of being the most warmed by the sun.
come Friday, we are lucifer-eyed fish hollow and unending,
fleshy rabbitholes to nowhere.
i could not be Eve. i've floated unnamed, a woman,
an old meat dress hanging cold on a hook.
Hell soaked up Eden early on, sly soupy and inevitable;
quick-pulsing animal-fear has drenched deep in our skins to keep us from madness.
November revisits regularly with skies spitting gold and silver acids-
feel the creepers leaping off your skin into outer abyss,
the ganglion missing the mark.
what's alive in your lashes is terrified and rapidly consuming it's kin.
welcome your body to war, to infiltrating filth
and inborn crust rising up as you sleep.
there's no holy man here yet, no muslim doll,
no red angels registering a fearful memory.
eventually, muscles trigger.
here's your chance to exist the most in bashing some man's skull
and breathing his carbon.
panic is a life choice; will you be still then, quiet for the shot?
you've always wanted to be the Sungod. you thirst for rats.
the crows all cry for tomorrow.
the club is the axe is the sword is the pistol is the machine gun,
and all are forks.
we've got to feed Sungod, and not just the Eden bitch.
we twitch and we salivate, as night and debt come down
soaking the sand of our strip miner brains,
as Appalachia burns bright in an amber eye,
as we're slunk under a tin desk in hope of apocalypse
bring us up like fish on a reel.
the air we can't breathe is the kind we want
the kind come out of the sun.
it'll collapse our lungs
and we'll see clear to oblivion
past the fetid horizon
and the red rivers forgetting us
in their constant coursing.
we've lived long Son, long enough to make me your mother.
i know a wood post doesn't constitute a spine anymore, i know what's fruit and what's not.
wax, rubber or plastic, all the same, i don't feel consoled.
this isn't a cradle but a shopping bag hung from a tree, twisting on a whim.
© Copyright 2017 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.
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