I am reading the writing that started it all.
The birthing of birth, the death of death.
The words that told him my name.
In the bathroom.
In a dusty box.
In a folder.
The birds chirping in my brain.
When I was a poet.
When I was a writer.
And today is the day.
I open the cage.
Sit down with a coffee and suck up my heart.
I want to visit their cousins, their sisters, their brothers, their wives...I want to visit them all and get to know the family a little.
Like I once knew it.
Especially the demonic children.
Because the words are creeping in.
Oh, the poetry is coming to visit.
But is she coming to stay?
Who can say.
Roaches and birds in a dusty,
d e l i c i o u s box.
I make her a bed of nails and lavender.
And lick the invitation.
One drop of blood or two, you say?
I kick off my shoes and wait.