blessed

 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?