I tell you I’m in trouble. Crunch of footsteps on the gold stair,
crush of teeth to red-skinned fruit. Two days you lay with that witch
before your guilt grows down like a root, cages you in promises.
You always did have a thing for older women. I should have known

when I smelled the salt on your breath, an herbal sexhale.
As if a tower is ever just a tower. As if a pumpkin is ever that.
Every story ever built has a window of some sort. A proverbial hole.
I’m your wife and daughter both. How’s your Oedipal complex now?

I’m going to let my hair down for every man who kneels beneath me.
That’s not a metaphor, daddy. We all grow our own thorns in the family plot.
Even braided, silk sheets still show the stains. Every time I cry, you’ll see again
what mistakes we’ve made. People escape to their deaths all the time.



Image: Taken with MacBookAir upon waking up.
Words written at the Jewel Box.
Time Taken 6.5 minutes.
Brain on fairy tales, love, the ways we get tangled.

This entry was published on May 21, 2012 at 10:46 am and is filed under May, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

4 thoughts on “[123]

  1. scott Duvall on said:

    love this shot!

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