Time slips into my small cup
and then I swallow.
In between the slice of hands,
I’ll be somewhere else.
Never inured, my blood
lays down the warhammer,
with a porous stomach,
slow processing liver.
They want me down and
down I stay,
awash in a febrile state.
Who wakes up, tear-streaked
and fawn-limbed, bowed at the joints
from a slim white pill?
Perhaps this is the last rebellion.
A legacy of trembling hands,
bore a daughter incapable.
Nature finally coddled the babe,
“This one is mine.”
Loose tongue, mad rambling,
forms surfacing, then dissolving
and I’m awake, four in the morning,
sweat-coated and unknowing
what parts of my mind
are tucked into the dream.
Nature, heredity, self-destruction
pull at their own threads,
artificing at influence,
when the corpus knows best:
the blood with open arms,
a body with a will of its own.
musings 