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