the barter comes in trembling ghosts. each grave begetting the next. the deal is closed in shattered windows. the hunger looking in on arrogant feasts. the lamb becomes a lion. and only blood can reset the scales.
small steps. through the abundant cold. we move on cracking crutches. toward heavens we know are not real. we heal on splintering nooses. pretending to sleep when no one is looking. always searching for the wolves in our grandmother's beds.
she's counting. as if numbers could foretell. she's counting. as if numbers are poison enough. to kill the suspicion. that there is life. in this pile of flesh.
time's weak strokes of medicine. Only prolong our deaths.
Monday
1/03/2011 12:59:00 AM
| Life Poems |