they do not pray to me
these clippings from the garden
every other one
lay broken, dead
and those remaining, if they had knees
they'd bend and pray to some god of theirs
crying, please not my time, not yet, i like it here.
here- i say, waiting to be smooshed by heavy
unguilted feet as egocentric fingers pull
limbs; naked skeleton. eyes- dripping in delight
of petal flesh. i know those buds, i've tasted them,
each spread ready, nose engulfed in their smell,
drunk nectar tongued upon mine
i am death- to them. yet, they do not pray to me-
shivering cold nights away as they still
and feel the dew of tomorrow. hope, it is called.
hope- i felt it once. in between my mother's legs
as i heard her crack. i seeped through, already knowing
the universe's secrets- her dropping milk plip plop
through starry points, lineage
of existence. but that was long ago, when i could
feel womb's yesterday; and venus lay upon me, scenting
my skin with her lips' amniotic fluids.
yes, long ago. i am solid now. unfurrowed-
and she mother, she venus are gone- dry, broken
as are the clippings from the garden,
i am death. so i need life
to exist—at least
every other one.
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d | Maggie Shurtleff's work may be found in Adagio Verse Quarterly, Open Wide Magazine, Erosha…literary journal of the erotic, ThunderSandwich, thievesjargon, and many other fine zines. Maggie is expecting work in the upcoming Spring/Summer issues of biMagazine and Zygote in my Coffee. email: Maggie Shurleff |
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