I have been waiting like a crooked coiled snake in the corner of my life.—Monique Ferrell
I have a cashmere poncho and a beautiful son,
a husband who watches my shadow
as we walk, sees a nimbus
crowning my head.
My daughter is a bird. She hoots
night into my ear.
I’ve been carried over and over
to the creek like meat to be cleaned
before eating.
Been in double jeopardy.
Sinned the same way more than twice
been exonerated due to luck and money.
Let me put it this way: I was deviled
by my childhood. My sister would beg
to beat me. I was an animal
my mother ate to fortify her blood.
And so I mistook the punctures in my throat
the sudden energy of lovers
when they walked out
as a kind of marriage. I felt bedecked in white
the very center of attention
until the pump and surge of blood
flooded my lace.
How did I change? Not choice.
More like lightning taken by a tree
because the tree learned to tower.
I stopped believing Paradise
is a place I used to live, neglected the itch
to bolt when I wasn’t the feast.