WORDS THAT MAKE US INTO BEASTS
how now can the gods not protect us
from the rotten words into which
our bodies melt –
the swollen forest of grief
where only black sunshine rises.
the butterflies mold their wings
from the bruised green leaves
it becomes mushrooms the shape of our ears,
becomes a greasy heart hovering over the weird lyrics
of the soul. we know if we died today
no one will avenge our death
because the gods themselves are helpless
in the tight grips of words holding us down in chains,
words growing disorderly like the hair
under the armpit,
like the loose horns of an old moose.
but we were told these same words
could make us beautiful again
if the gods would let go their flattened egos
and confess to their own vulnerability.
by and by we flow, hither and thither like the ocean,
caring never about the drying seas.
we’re the words that never germinate.
we’re the tree that never leaves its spot.
IF THE MONSTER LOOKED LIKE US
because a killer can either be a black/brown
terrorist or just a troubled white person
snakes would crawl out of our TVs
& make us unpuke its poison,
our lunch pizzas would be left cold
on the island at the center of the kitchen.
like the three elements warning God,
threatening Him to not be too generous or else
fire, earth & water would consume His world
of us. it’s winter in July, we deck out in jackets
thick enough to sway freezing glares.
the white neighbor that has always given us
half-smiles would spit at us from the corner
of her eyes, a voice we cannot see
would yell “go home”
& by that, they meant our grandfather’s
grandfather’s birth country, maybe
the King might even call us “sons of bitches”
like the snow finding where not to melt
we would look for a different language
to explain how death favors no one.
sadly, no language would be language enough
to make our darkening blood red ever again.
though, all we wanted to do was mourn
& pray for the souls of our lost brethren
every headline would scream in our faces with aggression,
they’ll tell us to not mourn our dead worth mourning.
Silks Heiss says
So much hurt. It helps to tell it and to share it. It is essential such hurt be shared …
And I relate a lot to the feeling of being imposed on by words, the words of others.