do not cross blood.
the crushed and blistered kind,
the leaves of bitter.
i will not be soft or feathered
i am the purpling beak which gouges
your open palms- i am not free.
dark things fly with dark things
the cloud of sky that is flock
this the home of my heart-
that which does not deny this wild ugliness
dress it in ribbons and lipstick
pink panties over the stink puss.
longer look with sentimental eye
longer my fangs, claw, the ripping
of scar and lancing boils:
who are you on this battlefield?
the doctor palm to finger
inside the rib of man
or the far off call of transmission:
a simple reporter, a secondary recounting.
i flew in the flame of the torch
tasted the tip of the arrow
into the ever open eye:
flew through the God ring
to shudder in cast and cloth
underneath that merciless gaze.
do not call me
dark make small of what you fear.
the world is alight in my eyes.