My hand shakes
with the power to see
as dark heat rises
revealing fluttering images
sad black light pictures
pain, loss, despair, regret
ashamed to see the shame
I look away
a reluctant voyeur
still straining to see
my heart wanders,
wonders, tries to wrap
around the confusion
like a tortilla maker
near the pot of beans
I see what man does
to man, woman, God
with leering faces
in twisted spaces
and graceless places
and weep the loss
I see porcelain enigmas
full moon tortures
train tunnel fears
and yellow haired hugs
of lighter shames
the darker sorrows
the deeper pain
shadows of stories
like knife point scars
with red, raw wounds
and cold ember ashes
bound in memory's chains
stumbling, I fall headlong
into trapdoor graves
where Lazarus smells
among blanched gray bones
dressed in starch collar suits
is this all part of the unbinding?
part of the rising?
part of some rolling of the stone?
Staggered, I would offer
with shaking arm
red, hot hand
and averted eyes
the power to see.
My God, my God...
Is there no end? |