this kind of thing still happens

My mother
awakened
late
one faint
day
with braced
hatred
and
a tainted
face,
bruised
inkpadstamp blue.

Swollen and wordless,
she prayed
on exhale
as
bluegray
wisps
of quicksmoke
whisked
the thick
air
that listless
misty
morning--
acrid
acid
appeals,
tacit
entreaties--
shriveling
thin
cigarettes
are speechless.

Plea.
Bleat.
Cheap burnt sheep.
Her wool
robe was smokestained,
lungs and legs pained.

crushed cracked shells
no sunyellow
yolks
whisked eggwhites
sickly beaten
sickened fried scrambled
eaten cold
seeming maybe raw

The previous night
I committed murder
in my mind.

She started it
and boyyyyy did
heeee finishit.

She slapped him--
I guess he slapped her back good.

I was razed
faceless
in this place
of dysgrace.

But then you raised me,
faced me
placed me
in grace.

So here I am now,
grateful
(like a full sunyellow yolk,
broken but unbeaten).

Tonight is a new morning.
Exhale
scented prayers
and sense
soon to rest,
blest

whisperlisten




this kind of thing still happens
by troy cady