Masukee

There is a long river that stretches on forever. It winds its way through the trees of many forests, and glides along the base of countless valleys. I have been following this river all my life. It's what our people do. We were born within feet of the river's edge, and one of our first sights is the water slicing the earth in half. When mother could walk again, the movement continued, and since it had continued, it has not stopped since. It stops for nothing but birth. The journey is not peaceful, for an entity beyond comprehension follows the river, too, but not to seek its truths. We never met this entity as children, though many we kne

Yesterday is a distant era Captured in sepia, smiles frozen in place And even a carved statue of your figure to an exact degree Would not be enough. Time is the murderer of memory And I dread every second that flies Across the clock's stoic face. Only you standing in front of me now Would make this alright. Too little, too late.

A thing I can't quit, no expanding arterial wall; I'm a sickle cell caught up in you Fibrinogen platelets from megakaryocytes to fill the wound from your fingertips A soft kiss Purkinje fibers frazzled semilunar valve murmuring sweet nothings A heated embrace sinoatrial node desynchronized please defibrillate There is no such thing as diastolic or systolic; only you over me

It's so easy to forget that the wounds you inflict are not always apparent at first glance Like the cut that suddenly appears and you wonder how it got there you have left a bigger scar than previously foreseen Steam Powered and on repeat I consider swallowing bleach to scar the lining of my esophagus a pasty white Uniform and monochrome just like you like it the way I've been swallowing bleach for fucking years Your child is a queer Your child is a queer Your child is a queer Your fucking child is a queer And your child is suffering and your child is angry and your child is loving in all the wrong ways Are you so willing to condemn you

Buttons for eyes, mismatched sizes Sewed but a centimeter off And a nose, a triangle patch of burlap Sewn in the center. A jagged cross-stitch mouth. Stitched from a thousand forsaken cloths-- Rugs, rags, blankets, curtains, cozies, scarves-- I shamble into the light. Irregular trails burrow into shifting sand. I limp. "Do I pass?" I ask, Lips parched and throat raw, Begging for recognition, validation, Anything to keep the charade going But a little while longer. Young men spit in reply. Young women give strange looks. Old men pat my head and smile, Tell me I am beautiful, A beautiful pile of rags. I weep. The sound is of catching fabri

It's the abyss: the abyss that nobody seems to understand unless it's dragged them underneath its surface. It's not romantic, though the poet would believe so. The poet, by trade, is a liar, not that I've an inkling of the truth. Those who have the abyss within them see the abyss in others. I have seen the abyss in you, because it is in me. We are its benefactors, and we cannot flee from it. We do not have a choice, because it does not give us one. The choice we make is our own entirely. We may fight the abyss, or let it swallow us. The fight is long, the struggle immense, and you will hear voices telling you it cannot be done. They will te