billyfivecrows

three women


1.

Is Sunday the first day of the week? Is everyday?

Her aggressive calmness was beyond insistent. Pre-insistent, she might say, if she ever would, could. What can be killed? Nothing, if you adhere to stillness; lap folded beneath hands, smooth, thick thighs; a young old woman, an old young woman. Everyday was sunset. All day long. All music was 'OM' protracted, enacted; adhering to sound outside of sound was contradiction, but she knew this. Or never could.

Uncertain movies certainly played across the bullish, dulled-grey retina. Something about "Venus in Aquarius", or a handgun masquerading as a flower vase. Crater-faced angels were invisible to her. Not ignorable.

"Everything's an angel..." I once said, "even the ugly moon."


I came back inside, covered in the whispers of itchy trees.

"Fuck you" I thought.

But decided on silence, eyebrows burning like broken candles.


2.

Mother of my princess. Father of your
Prince. By no means my twin. A
Cancer that ignores me when
I speak. Adores me when I don't.

"How was your birth?
Those of all the others?
Mine?"

I ask,

Miming in pseudo-anonymity.


3.

How tall are you? Nevermind.

I'll stand on my tounge

To reach you...




*

(a poem recently submitted for publication)