THE RIGHT WORDS

pockets of sleep & pools of rage and

if the poem is left unfinished
then it won’t need to have any meaning

if the mountain is sacred

a massacre is inevitable

a blanket of lies to cover it up

you map them out in your head,

one for your husband, one
for the children, and i am left here
without enough pieces to make a whole

i am afraid, always

i breathe in, then out, but

can’t get enough air

what we become in the end are our own

prisons, our own prisoners,
our own priests

days rise up like clouds above the

hills, like the
threat of brilliant blue skies

heat without warning & a blanket of haze

and i am there at the front door with
flowers and with lies and
i am godless

this story is a dead end,

just like any other

we are dogs fucking on floors

of broken glass

we are poets

waiting to be blindfolded

waiting to be marched out

onto some bloodsoaked field and
shot because the power of words,
of course, lies in the power of fear

because the weakest are always

the easiest to kill

all it takes from you

is a little goddamned effort