Tremors

For all the listening devices

you have planted in the walls

I have muffled this sore-head of sounds

and from my feet

rise the tremors of a ground shaking

the rumble from your thunder-stomp.

I have lost a lot.

The whisk of my father's breath,

gin in my ear.

The drip of honey,

bathing my skin

until I am lost in the

whispering sea of men.

The milk of the evening

runs rivers over my body.

Every night I am stolen,

only to be retrieved by

that large hand

who wrings me out.

I have lost it all.

I have lost it all

for the sake of

solitude.

I know now that these

large men of boiling rage,

will grow larger than any

angry silhouette or shadow.

They can pull hell from a storeroom

and drum from the counter.

They draw guns

and they pull at my wounds.

They would tear out your rib

to make Eve.

When I taste copper in my mouth

I know that I am rich.

When I feel oil rise up from my lungs

I know that I can breathe easy.

Take my hands,

pry them open

pull at my wounds

until I am left with

an anchor

to fill my belly.