The blood we are given is dangerous.
Your father had a Polish tongue
Neat wife, proud trinity of sons.
Pastors licking flames like fat leeches,
shepherded son choking on consonants
tripping on heels, cooking spoons, closets full of clothes.
Years later we lie curled like hurricanes
crashing knees into walls
you’re hardly daring to speak,
tongue grown in your jaw
mother and uncle and a lost son
biting your throat in two.
Her voice worms through the phone,
and the quietest place in the heart
struggles between two breasts
- a boy with
hips round as an oyster pearl –
speaks
not the tongue
his father taught him,
but speaks.
Author notes
about someone going through one hell of a life-changing event.
some plath reference in there as well.
unfinished, im sure i'll tinker with it here and there.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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gosh your writing has changed.
im back on allpoetry btw. lol.
i loved this. i thought it was brilliant. there comes a time in emotion where everything is interconnected and it seems you wrote this poem right around that time. all the chaos of humanity comes together over struggle, right? so, in all honesty, our worst times are our best times. like...that childrens book "Everybody Poops" lol. its always refreshing to see raw humanity without the industrial makeup. good job, hope to be talking to you more mummy lol.
<3shelby. -
your images and the way you shape their relationships is a rich as always. I feel as if I am dropped from a sensical world into a battering sea of feelings that dance across my skull and drum upon my heart. There is a deeper ache here unaddressed beyond his needing to escape the straight jacket of his own culture, their is the loreli who as fallen in love with her own object of flirts and feels helpless before all she has wrought.
Love, Tom B.
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very interesting Kier. i like the flow of this.
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