THE VENTILATOR
7pm
Help me down?
You don't dare.
I might rub
off on you,
like soot or
gossip. Birds
of a feather
burn together,
though as a
rule ravens are singular.
In a gathering
like this one
the safe place
is the background,
pretending You can't dance,
the safe stance pointing a finger.
I understand. You can't spare
anything, a
hand, a piece of bread, a shawl
against the cold,
a good word. Lord
knows there isn't much
to go around. You need it all.
12 midnight
My throat is taut against the rope
choking off words and air;
I'm reduced to knotted muscle.
Blood bulges in my skull,
my clenched teeth hold it in;
I bite down on despair
Death sits on my shoulder like a crow
waiting for my squeezed beet
of a heart to burst
so he can eat my eyes
or like a judge
muttering
about sluts and punishment
and licking his lips
or the crowd
their own evil
turned inside out like a glove,
and me wearing
it.
or like a dark angel
whispering to me to be easy
on myself. To breathe out finally.
Trust me, he says, caressing
me. Why suffer?
A temptation, to sink down
into these definitions.
To become a martyr in reverse,
or food, or trash.
To give up my own words for myself,
my own refusals.
To give up knowing.
To give up pain.
To let go.
3am
wind seethes
in the leaves around
me the tree
exude night
birds night
birds yell inside
my ears like
stabbed hearts my heart
stutters in my
fluttering cloth
body I dangle
with strength
going out of me the wind seethes
in my body tattering
the words I clench
my fists hold No
talisman or silver disc my lungs
flail as if drowning I call
on you as witness I did
no crime I was born I have borne I
bear I will be born this is
a crime I will not
acknowledge leaves and wind
hold onto me
I will not give in
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