Foundling

Foundling

"Renunciation... is a piercing virtue."
Emily Dickinson

But to be the one renounced
In name of virtue--that's a bad joke,
A taste in the mouth like last night's garlic.
Sweat it out. Comes the pain without the honor,
Like the martyr soldier's horse!
Insult to fibers moral and connective--
Do I shame you? So I do. --
Contamination borne in the blood.
Your secret's showing, not to be
Spoken. Hushed, refused, this applecart
Upsetter, homewerecker, mark of sin.
The hills above the city are scarred with infants' bones.

To the Muse

To the Muse

It isn't about men leaving.
Not my brother's gun.
I feel like shit
Most of the time
Thinking I forgive you but I don't
Understand you.
Only in the bad times,
The worst places, I find you in me.
Black juice of joy rant and storm
Surge of pain; this is the blood spring vital.

Your ghost screams in pain.
I can't believe I wrote that.
Your ghost screams in pain.
Biting itself, shredding its tongue,
Shredding its ghostly arms
With nightmare claws. Wake up now.
I'm writing this for you.
Everything is for you, these forget-me-nots,
These chocolates, this glass of gin, this rage.
The car run into a snowdrift, bottles of pills,
My crimes, my sacred enemies, lockdown
Ward two west and meds call.
What have I not given, endured?
I am faithfully yours.