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i love the way i’m stared at like the old photograph of a dead relative.
life is nothing but an upturned mud house, rattling with shades of darkness that cry within.
i know this, but i am young and unmutilated
with a rushing stream of flowers between my thighs
I still draw my life in the air, painting with a white chalk, the images of boys who pretend to play hide and seek with toy guns.
and when I garner strength, i turn my face from the mud house. mud house of madness. mud house of death.


it is winter but i do not want sex.
i amble to a church to see the face of a god, but he’s not in
so i fix myself before a clothing store where i hold scarfs for the buyers and the “who says i cannot check around” folks that swarm in.
i am dressed to kill – in a bloody green gown that reaches my navel, embroidered with
the silk of a dying tree.
tomorrow is my death day. and i will mark it.


certain songs are never meant to fade. like the staccato bursts of gunfire.
i’m facing a mirror but instead of my reflection, i see my battered daughter, who is shocked that the 2X table could be recited under a roofed classroom.
but it is wrong to speak of death
in the house of a pregnant woman who
lives in an upturned mud house.

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