(Reflections on I, Pierre Rivière having slaughtered my mother, my sister, and my brother...)
A body
Its flesh spread
In foetal curled
Small incisions
I begin to make
Slivers of skin
Coloured red
With salt water
Slide across the floor
The mass that
Tries to scream
Throw throw throw
Baby and bathwater
The knife plunges
Again
It is no sword
I use it to cut bread
Bread you demand
I bake, I serve
The calendar
Today purpled
You thought it
My birthday
My gift -
My freedom
Your life.
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2 comments:
the moment I saw your comments on mine, I was like 'oh, grt, her internet's back, so she must've put up the poem'and here I am... ella ella ella... :)
I really like this poem, knowing where it comes from, knowing also where it's taking you. You are really doing very well with your poetry here. I wish you luck.
much love
thanks love. thankee very much. :-)
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