Be Thy Mine

My finger lingers


on my lip,

an index-shaped kiss


The hungry metallic bordello

that feds my sisters and I soil

to pack our lungs with.

The aristocracy.

The already ignorant.

The idling idiot.

O multifarious -

is greed itself not a currency?

A curtain as yet unopened,

but a disease that passes from hand to mouth like breadcrumbs.

The left over harridan

(what is left of the hag,)

but her need to supplicate the supremacy?

I'm still gagging on the aspersion.

Still packing my tits with acorns; scavenging.

Still lethargic

(carved twistedly,)

if blame were my foremothers,

then the speckle of cru cut hair on my legs must be fatherly.

A reminder of my place.

My need to cover up when exposed.

Hack at my skin with beauty marks.

Remain; the living embodiment of insatiability.

You must be too self indulgent when you plunder me,

or else my choke reflex wouldn't be so jumpy.

The twelve Catherine's

all in a glazing line of angelic aggravation,

and myself

just one in a great many generations of women

born with deep-set eyes.

My bloodlines all sucking

at soil like tree roots,

and Jessica somewhere in the ground swooning.

Ballooning semi-automatic heartbreak;

I stood in the field and watched each puff of light burn out.

Each crease and crevice whispering:

'be thy mine'

until it was time to say goodbye.

In the end I think we are all children;

and that heaven must be full of soil

for so many souls to grow,

to spring forth from the bitterly supple clouds

into a world not our own, but of us.

There must be love there,

and loved ones.

My finger must linger on hope.