Sore 

Tonight you felt sore 

And the haunter of your life 

Of your little pealing 

Whispered to you again, whispered of 

The darkling path before you, stretched sure. 

Cresting path before you 

Taut and howling like your splintering mother Narrow as the birth canal 

Bible black like the creases in your 

Mother’s palm against peeking eyes. 

Wake, beaded, wakeful 

Press the pillow cold against your eyes 

Press the blanket warm 

Press the womb trace 

Against your bare shell 

In silent beds, in the radiator hum 

You hear echoes cries and laughters 

Moments deaths births 

Piling soft against your skin, falling 

To the floor, to the strata, to 

Deep trembling dusk, taut against those grasping eyes. Tonight begins the rapture of your words Tonight, all your words return 

Listen to their soft annunciations 

Hear them soar back to you.