God Ain’t Here & Tourniquet
God Ain’t Here
This house we built with its abundance
Of suffering, a hundred sealed windows.
Where do your prayers find you? No, no!
The waters keep on running in this hell &
The birds were all plucked of their tongues
As if saying to all the quiet, tongue-less birds
Who’s to save you now when your rituals
Are plunged deep into the tall, red ground?
He walked for miles down a narrow hall
With no doors. His feet grew tired. He fell
To his knees without a tongue to give voice.
Foreign body, those aren’t his hands no more.
He’s building this house. God ain’t here,
Just a procession of breathing wings
Trying to find their way out. There’s no escape.
Prayer by prayer trapped in a wooden box
& spilled over Just one more time, one more.
He’s breaking a nail into his wood, one by one.
The waters keep on running, spilling into him,
One by one. He continues to drown with his
Sealed off mouth. Not a prayer to let go of.
No. Not now. Not ever. He’s too tired
Building a home with broken glass & raw hands.
Not quite out of the woods, he’s got a funny
Walk. Tender was the word I ought
Not to have used but I’m here with twigs
Scattered throughout my hair like a myth.
Wanted dead, I coughed up blood while
The man fucked me with a handful of Lubriderm
& a pocketful of change.
My voice sounds different with so many
Tongues locked inside of my mouth.
This isn’t about sex. This is about the tender
Crunch of each step I make moving toward
Something. But, first, more spit.
After, I zip-up my pants. How’s that for conclusive?
I have a pocketful of coins: the fruits
Of my labor. My thighs, mango puss.
See me differently. This tourniquet hurts.
Stop, you’re hurting me. There’s the clearing.