Abrupt Cacophony
/How many times
will people put their hands
on me—and pray for peace that doesn’t come?
I read critiques
of Sylvia’s poetry—
that we should be ashamed that we’re in love
with death. People—
they don’t know God—
who can say things like that—about society.
They can’t know Him—
no more the iron rod
or Heaven’s shade; they do not understand
eternity despairing
neutral dreams.
They surer than Hell can’t know what it is
to live within a body apart its seams—
encapsulating corpse
of Freudian pleas—
withering since the day it came
from its
mother’s barbaric, pest’lent womb–
covered
in milky vernix and lament so hot
that even light seemed like a concrete tomb.
How many times tell the caged bird to sing?
Twitter sweet,
cacophonous melody?
They look blindly upon my broken wings—
while mixing pills in
along with bird seed,
to let it through a trap door on a hinge.
Sunlight could have been
more rudimentary—
preceding faith and joy, of each a twinge—
invasive, supple and
alimentary.
Now guilt and blackness—I unwillingly cleave—
unwilling most—
unlike the shrewd serpent—
flowed to the husband right upward through Eve—
for which, dear God,
I voraciously repent.
By Melissa Lemay
From: United States
Website: https://melissalemay.wordpress.com