Sometimes I’m the Victim

 

I’m just this
thin, frail thing
sleeping in a bed
in the mouth of
a flytrap
curled up in
its deception
those plush, red
promises,
turning my insides into
a protein shake.

 

 

 

Moniker

 

I wasn’t named for fire or
even smoke
though the idea likes to cuddle up with me.

The name I do have fails so hard
at defining me, it never has a
moment of clarity,
sounds like virginity
passed down to me.  

By the time
I find a way to be
still, I’ll have to move again. So, I  
can't change it, only
turn it gently.

Dreams where I don’t know my name, but
you can call me “baby”
never end well.

I thought it was a good thing
he seldom said my name.
Only when he was about to
lose it. Then I was the names
of other women, my identity
tossed in a junk drawer
along with everyone else, because
we’re all the same
argument. We’re all that way.

I would shake the bag of Scrabble
letters, hoping I could make a new name
that sounded like someone
he would
never disrespect. Something that
meant “be kind to this woman or she’ll have
to tear your heart out”

I need a name like Charlie or Ruth.
I could be a Greta
or Frankie,
thrown into a fray and survive better, or
maybe I’d stay away better.

But I’ve grown into it, despite it, ended
up with it, when orphans
might have lost it
That has to count
for something, I guess.

 

Mattering

 

I haven’t had my heart

pounding in my throat

for so long, I’d begun

to suspect it never happened.

White rings burnt into my vision

Nearly blind, trying to see the

Changing labyrinth beyond

Competing with the weather

Because that’s the only thing

strangers ever talk about

I can fold these thoughts

into pill-sized chunks

and swallow them down,

but that tell-tale heart,

the tattletale, could never

keep my mouth shut…

anyone who’d listen.

 

 

Free

 

Baby Archer

 

My hips spread to make
room. I walked across fire,
to ensure history stayed
in the past. I strung an arrow
for his brain and another for his heart,
aimed to teach him to be a man.

Baby Archer has his own quiver,
reads his own books, writes his own
words, and clears his own dishes.
He has an arrow strung to convince me
that he’s a man already.

Baby Archer observes, marks
slurred speech, the smell of booze.
He sees tantrums, knows this man
is not a child, but I have to explain
how he’s not really a man.

Baby Archer, born of my sign,
spread my hips because room had
to be made. He sits on top
of my thighs and we witness
the stars. He pokes at the fire,
pulls out the glowing tip and
traces Chiron in the sky.

 

Window

 

Discourse

 

Luckier to let the brain slip,
than skip across that same abyss,
that private, platinum-plated  
kingdom of softly sloping spiral        
staircases, mahogany doors   
and marble floors, hidden latches
always loosening in this limerick riddled      
rhetoric ferried far across a fragrant
bog. The smiling string of thinning
smoke above the mote.