Nectar's Wrench

Nectar’s Wrench:

 

My tears can’t cleanse my soul,

Just like my blood can’t stitch my

Gaping wounds.

 

My cup has overflown,

Yet I am still the cross I bear.

 

And though my eyelids rest,

My conscience preaches unceasingly.

 

My head is in my hands

But the weight leaves my fingers

Disfigured.

 

Upon a holy bed, I lay

My body searing the quilt/spread

For it is in this holy bed that my sin

Yearns to see my burn.

 

Awake, I have been waiting…

Petrified of missing the answer that could

Mold me and fold me into the

Tidy-tight woman who walks without a wobble;

A woman whose neck has no fractures

A woman who hasn’t a hunch in her back

 

A woman who may be bored to death with the

Tidiness/cleanliness of her life.

 

She lays beside me, wishing she could

Feel my fire.