I, Indebted

held in one place, secure balancing
a thousand stories about myself,
my Scheherazade, wearing masks
of words. how many ways are there
to spell forgiving? each moment
it seeps like small cross stitches
or cinching button holes, if
I ever knew my great grandmother
the great granddaughter of confederate
flag bearers, before she saw
jesus and was locked up,
into electrifying conclusions
and a choking final moment in
a life before my life, overturned
in black and white healing rooms.
I want more, stretched into
your forty days, counted sleepy
and malleable, misaligned, coupling
divine we are, with both the coarse kissing
between sinews and your next
ignorant dismissal, breathing
just for the sake of tasting
coursing through the rivers
of brief concealing lives
like ribbons, all gone to silt. Dry
bedding. I feel like I,
with openness and no trembling
(out loud anyways) I could
fly south into mysteries,
all grown up now.
I’m dreaming again; it seems
I always have been.

Reviews

[Emily B]

Your dreams are familiar and real to me. I think we are all indebted to your stunning vision.

[W.k.kortas]

Would it be wrong to try to classify this as "compressed Ginsberg"?

[Ed Hart]

A prophet is not without honor, except in her own house.