womb of ink

little purple cube
turning over in your womb of ink
if I get too close will you squirt your inerds out?
leaving me in a dark fog
wondering what I did wrong
maybe you will open your tentacles
and absorb me into your middle

wrapped in your many legs
I feel both trapped and comforted
if only I could release and let
you swallow me whole
but the many hurts that surround
my soft pink inside
no longer allow penetration
they stand guard like boulders.

Doll (another redrafted poem)

this dance began with heartbeats and hand claps
tap, slap, clap
shuffle, step
and SNIP

she sits and stares
reading her surroundings
analyzing, concluding
she thinks too much and acts too little
the words never quite say it, nor are executed properly

all the strings are cut
the performance is over
and she crumbles into a pile of limbs

he is all men
catching her staring
her glass eyes roll up
to focus on the lights
and not the woods floors
where her foot imprints should be

the dark absences absorb the glow endlessly
her eyes swallow the beams
all she can do is stare

the man who embodies all men
he approaches her and stands next to her heap
the light reflects off her porcelain skin
and bounce off the whites of his eyes
his spotlight in her direction

he lifts her arms
they reach around him
and return to her
to graze her lower back

he creates for her
little moments of distraction
she stares and absorbs too much of him

the branches begin where the song (and the strings) left off
slowly they grow, split and thicken
weaving between her fingers, taking a hold of strands of her hair
they insert themselves beneath her armpits
and as they heighten, she begins to straighten
her limbs configure,
she unfolds
until the illusion of standing alone is complete

the woods immerse the doll
they swallow her colors, until only the porcelain
of her face can be seen
the branches continue, enveloping over her head

until they reach the heavens or consume her completely,
they will never be satisfied.

a reflection on a birth's eve: to lisa ann [redrafted maybe ready for the coffee read?]

we are little fragments glued together
bounding on our merry way
colliding and contriving
unraveling apart into piles on the ground

she kneels next to me
helping my scraps reassemble
temporarily
until the next gust of wind
or a different fragmented creation
breaks me apart

again and again

brokenness comes from the gut
abs contract as we release
bits of water and snot

she is aging and yet much more beautiful that I
she cries, yet I rarely see it
if she becomes uncollected in front of me
what will I do?
the woman who shares my face
will I know how to help her put herself back together?

sometimes I fear a broom will come
and sweep our parts into a pan
and we shall stay in our broken state
sobbing and screaming
never able to stand up again