Daddy says predator- I say love-
feasts on something- doesn’t it?
You write what you know you write-
what you know and you
write what you know and
the circular direction points
back towards center.
the rape and the dead child and
the way it feels to simply walk away from
this brick-laden thing called
life… I tiptoe to the edge of my own fingertips
she wrote, cunningly,
and he kept pounding- a rope and a blind and a
camera, yes a camera for posterity-
for fun? For the kids? For reference he recorded
as I drift to the edge of my own fingertips
dancing, my mouth cottoned in blood
because it only takes a second- this one and that other one
with the dead child they set in my arms.
a lump of cement
is what this child feels like
moments after he’s died
grey is a temperature and a weight
red is a taste
long is this life
I circle-
wheel through these
words
they sift precariously towards center
and stumble,
try to
piece solid
back
together.
