|
Dawson Prize for Poetry
I am waved to a niche
within a crowd of bodies,
half of them stripping down,
The remainder uniformed in blue.
Here, I will bare myself
in the pallor of shame,
have my orifices inspected
my testicles lifted, my bare _____
bent to a penlight’s gaze.
No questions, no kindness
will escape me.
This is life as we know it,
this tightening of our cells.
Having nothing else for our bellies,
we choke on the dry rind of justice,
and drink the dust of forgiveness withheld.
Shirt, pants removed as words
fallen from a sentence,
I transition from subject to object.
My ribs are thistles;
my arms piles of brush.
My heart is a crimped doorway to a darkroom.
I flinch; expect to have my side piereced,
my legs broke,
to ensure my soul is dead.
On my tongue, symbol bitters to vinegar.
In my eyes, cinders crack.
The remorse which hinges over the chest
is more poignant as the hatred
moves further back to the ribs stem.
Lycanthrope, I become more creature
each day, and the moon, a plucked eye,
isn’t yet full.
>> Author bio
|
