With careful love I write you
of such soundless things I knew
when I could only see,
in hope you’ll find them true
and me.
I met a man who mouthed the words
of God (my child, my child),
and I gave birth to their spiny figures
alone
in a dark room of a
quiet,
quiet home.
(they said I had grown wild).
Not one heard the silent call,
and so I had been bought,
and bled his sins and memories.
Oh, my dear,
who thought that children blossomed free,
but, like tiny Christs in each hometown,
with heavy skin and flower crowns,
the some pay for the all.
I’ve nothing now to give,
to fold into, as lovers do.
(i could not forget)
I sold my story to someone
who could stand to live it.
My virgin heart long cold,
harlot hands un-sewn.
My soul to you - I’ve left -
my body just for show.