Writing
Also, here are the only two things I've managed to finish this year, writing-wise.
Coils
1.
When I was younger
my mother and I could watch the news together
without war breaking out.
When I was younger I was
small.
Walking through my backyard
in the dark, I stumbled into the thickest
nest of spider webs
and felt a widow crawl across my neck.
I cannot cross the spot without a shiver and a second
in which I am still there.
When I reopen the door to my parents’ house,
I touch the back of my hand and shiver.
I wish I was still unafraid of becoming you.
I wish I was small and had not noticed
the parts of the world we did not want to see.
Now I have let you down in so many ways
sometimes I forget
you have let me down in more.
2.
Sometimes I can feel my heart
growing scales, numbness coiling in my gut.
How could you have known?
You were giving me everything
you could have wanted.
Hunger Strike (for G)
What if this is not
a disorder?
What if I want to live
like a snake,
gorging once every two weeks and then
hiding away to shed another useless layer of myself?
What if I have seen one too many pictures
of skeleton women and bodies left rotting
of orphans who I could have just as easily been?
Take away your mirrors and
bring me your God.
This is a hunger strike.