Poem: Birth Hour ~ An Ode to the Women in the Resistance

For a symphony lies naked 

In the shadow of the rings 

A shallow conjecture 

An afternoon delight 

Of burnt lips, and 

the anecdotes in 

auburn - lights, lights 

And nicotine stains 

A grand piano to

prop up the mortal remains. 

A mask in halves 

Or blood on the thighs 

Gravitating towards realms 

of white 

And the insight of

grey cubicles 

Bathroom floors

Ants willing to sacrifice their epiphany 

To the essence of the dried red 

Unkempt dust, and hidden eulogies 

To the witching hour 

The butcher's call

And an avalanche

And an owl's corpse 

Will levitate in the buoyancy 

Of the midnight hours

Solemn and bare 

Shepherd's flutes will rise

Like snakes

Snakes on the bosom and nipples draining 

Spring, like a perpetual river

To the decomposing flesh

Flesh skin and bones

To the marine hours of salt 

And from the bleeding skin

And the blackened thighs 

And the shrunken intestines

Shards of glass

In the hour of the red

An abomination 

like a gospel

Like man-eating witches

Like a purse sewed with skin

Like a body nailed and clawed and hung and burnt and pricked and dried 

Empty like the eyeholes of the ghosts

That haunt us in our dreams

Die Träume das töten

Will metamorphose 

the order of the dead, the unholy trinity

And God will no longer be as white as the snow

Or the severed heads thrown around as trophies

in the battles lost

Or the pale of the fish-eyed view of the ceiling falling on us

In the hour preceding childbirth

And out of the empty foetus 

The coiled umbilical cord

Nauseous as the invogorating appeal of raw flesh 

God will rise - and God will no longer

Be a man.