The Birth of Water
inertia is like water.
wave to me,
childlike as a memory
might be hazy in the gloaming.
lost trinkets in the blue trunk I keep in my bedroom.
born in the shell of hell and war,
planets plane enough to see with my born new-again eyes.
teach her the daedal of dads,
raised to call him 'pa' and I grew my hair
out to my waist to embody something
I could never be.
born too late.
learned the lessons that go along with birth too soon.
she is not the moon,
she could be.
to pull me
tighter and straighter
when I start to
thread (woven) limbs across the needle.
this is aspersion,
some windswept lie to lay me here beneath the mountain as an offering.
mother, let my blood flow fast,
the rush of the hush that's spread over us -
quickly the brush of your
lips have become prickly like a cocoon.
let him sleep in the water;
let the languorous form sail,
slip from my fingers,
fail all around me.
this is how I was born.
what I was born for.
a destiny of desirable burns.
let me rest warm in your arms,
suck the ripe love from you with a mouth not
yet marked for worser words.
the sun is setting over the water.
you are otiose to me.
the scar of me shed like a second skin.
already have I run through you,
no more do I need from you.
but the water is a division;
at once both
thick and yawning.
twisting and fawning
like a woman;
like a woman kneeling,
the shell of infancy from her eyes like spider legs -
these are the webs that I have woven.
water is like inertia,
an innuendo I can't ignore.