Blessed are the poor in spirit
or maybe that's just the poor
i need more spirit, that's for sure
i don't feel blessed
i'm not the best
at love. Ineffective,
recursive. I sit
like slick
black grease. Greed,
or grief. I need
less of myself, more
spirit. Sipping spoons
of my own sins--no prophet,
I meant
to sing you songs,
not this lament
of middle age
unwomanhood, ungrown
to fruitfulness,
curling the same sour leaves.
Bees leave my flowers alone,
they don't taste sweet.
Escapist, weak willed, it's soap in my throat,
acid bitter, acedia
medication
mental masturbation
shame's as good as any reason
to turn away from all this
shit--
Good God, the self pity
was bad enough at eight, at twelve, sixteen
At thirty it's obscene
as a newborn crowning, streaked
with chalky grease, red and white
helpless, sinless, hungry
to gape for suck and wail.
Will you, God, mother us
at your own breast
when we so streaked and shameless scream?
Will you, till we rest?
