Suffering does not always give off
airs of being painful.
The body has
tools for masking that which it
houses within.
Can carry
sorrow deep in belly
like womb swollen big
without benefit of children,
strong in back, though aching,
sore in feet, yet standing;
a cloak to belie the dust of
aches settled upon
ribs and hip bones.
Horrific truths exposed only
when ripped from deep interiors
like aborted fetus discarded
premature,
tossed aside remembrances
hurled into heaps like laundry,
well worn and dirty;
hidden between lines in palms,
between stanzas of poetry.
Heard uttered from trembling
lips into mics, whispered
to audience as though
they might have the ability
to cure those who spit rhymes
for the purpose of therapy,
searching out eyes in
darkness, coyly seeking
out a returned gaze which
offers back understanding
and the possibility of
one night of connection/
temporary release of the
frustration of silence,
so hands grip mic tight
imagining soon it will be fingers
upon eager thighs
absorbing the shock
of depth, of hurt explored,
between shots and groans
which stifle the moaning of
a temple in turmoil,
betraying the foul taste
of loss upon bitten tongue
held captive by the one
who only lets self come
undone on paper,
on screen, but never
gives self a reprieve
from the constant
grieving
it never is able
to escape from.
Sink down like sand,
fall in like ground,
cave further away
from the sound of
your voice, from the wrong
of your choices.
No followed through
promises of calls
once you've gone, just
moving on from city to state,
from the hate you'll leave
behind between the sheets
of a bed which held in it
a fugitive of truth, a survivor
of lies.
And the hallow eyes
of a woman who for one night
tried to soothe
that which
ailed you, but knew not that
deep within you was a pain
she could not reach
and though she was touched
by the words in your poetry,
you never once felt it.
