Brenda Warren
Lotion does not ease
The passage of a heart
Once the pulp has set,
Anymore than liquor
Exonerates the suffering soul.
We all have ghosts
In our mirrors and chickens
Dozing in the hinges
Of our open diaries.
–
My brain sloths in the presence
Of your pitiful machine.
I lust the reel behind
Your gimmick-ridden eyes,
It must be torture to live
Sewn into the uniform
Of your hypnotizing flesh
Never free the train that rapes you.
–
Nothing spoils like ink on revision
The sultry muse who teases
Without origination, without obligation.
The plump, unfertilized womb
That bleeds her loneliness monthly.
I await my divisions, my miracles
My tears burst on the pads of your thumbs
A diaphanous spore cannibalizing
What it cannot readily possess.
For
mindlovemisery 