War

War

War

War

War

War is the sword we love to live and die for.

War is the lord we pray to kill and fight for.

War is the why we don’t wanna know now.

War is the bind of proud vengeance, its bloody vow.

War.

Want me some war.

Gotta have me some war.

Come on, let’s war.

Lips Lungs Tongue

I.

Lips, lungs, tongue.

Lips, lungs, tongue.

I’m smoking a cigarette outside the airport terminal,

when it raises its head, curls, then snakes

its way to my inner ear, settles there,

sounding soft and sanctimonious:

You make a living

from your lips,

your lungs,

and your tongue.

I hadn’t thought this thought this way before:

my lips

my lungs

my tongue.

Everything hinges on my body parts, moving,

working as involuntary gestures, or at least

the way I will them, and I’m smoking

a cigarette, outside the airport

in white, cold Michigan.

Unspoken Word

I.

As a child I spoke when spoken to,

learned my place as children often do

and stayed there,  

a still and silent thing, the picture

of assigned perfection, a portrait

of good-little-girl obedience, painted

by the refined strokes of the bible belt

across my back.

By adolescence, my mouth was a tight fist

where words were folded,

like my fingers to my palms,

an arsenal of unloaded weapons.

I sucked

the intentional hand, seeking to shut up my mouth

or extract words, like teeth.

I chewed my nails ragged,

swallowed the dead remains

and fed on silence to stave the threat of violence

and its dark premonitions.

Fear found fodder and took root

in the damp and toxic dump

of broken meanings, cast off words,

and useless verbs,

a heap

of what wasn’t said,

my funeral bed

of hot and smothered shame,

and every time I failed to claim

the air and muscle to speak my name,

I died another suicide.   

Death was a bad habit.

Break the Glass

1.

I read old magazines and wait

thirty minutes for my name to be called

by a receptionist who tells me I’ll have to wait

another ten minutes for the doctor who finally appears

from behind the locked door.

The doctor scribbles on colored paper,

while I answer questions she asks:

What medications have you used in the past?

How long did the crisis last?

Have you ever attempted suicide?

Whether or not I tried to die

depends upon your definition.

Does refusing to bend

and taking it on the chin

amount to a death wish?

Does staying alive

when I should have died

count as a health risk?

The doctor prescribes Wellbutrin and Seroquel.