can I return to the imprint of
what never was for me
but was intended in the wishes
of those who dream those
cat and mouse cataclysms
mourners in their grief wagons
cats eye marbles,
a whole bag of them
to roll in the neat lines
in the sand
but I can't play with the boys
it is not allowed
mother earth's magnet
pulls lightning bolts
out of the spiral of the spheres
into her body
like fingernails scraping
the back of the earth
there are ridges of dirt
in the rooted lines
on her palms
and her wrists are
perfumed with
jasmine and
pulsating veins
I got my fingernail torn out
by a Doctor when
I was four
he was allowed
It was infected
from clay stuck in there
because I got carried away,
in play
I tried to run on little legs
futile, he threw a sheet over me
the reeking, hospital blankness
suffocating
he could not know
about those dreams
in black and white
where I got buried alive
again and again
he could not know
He stabbed a needle
into my wound
I don't know if it worked,
the anesthetic
but I felt it all
I died and was reborn
out of the altar of agony
in my thumb
and I was changed
just like that
fruit on the ground
as surely as
a witless madman with a sickle
wreaking havoc on the harvest
this is your heritage
your flesh and your blood
your wine
your elemental
your air tipping with rain
I write on the mind
of a witch
with a quill
as sharp as daggers
that still bears
the scent of a wing
on the wind
I sometimes have a grin
as wicked as a
torn throat
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