And she doesn’t want to press charges. My yellow cousin
Ghost of a gypsy. Drunk off the wine of pressed grapes.
Repressed screams of sun shrivelled raisins.
And their dreams. Interrupted…
By a manhood deferred
Will she ever sober?
Or will they keep handing her glasses overflowing
with the burden of knowing.
I never knew
Never knew it could haunt me.
The ghost of a little girl in the desolate mansion.
Of my manhood.
I’m a man now
And then I remember that I have been charged.
One million volts of change.
Will the ghost of that little girl ever meet my little girl.
She’s one now.
She must have been three then.
She’s eighteen now.
I’m twenty-five now.
I must have been twelve then.
My mother said he was in his forties.
And she’s not pressing charges.
Although she’s been indicted.
And I can’t blame her.
I can’t calm her.
I want to calm her.
I want to call him names.
But only mine seem to fit.
“Come on, let’s see if it fits”.
Two little boys with a magic marker marked her
“They put it in me”
“No we didn’t, what are you talking about?”
“It’s not permanent, It’ll come out when you wash it”
Damn, maybe it was permanent.
I can’t forget.
And I hope she doesn’t remember.
Maybe Magic marked her.
Lord, I hope he don’t pull no dead rabbit out of that hat.
What ya gonna do then?.
And what was Mary’s story?.
The story of a little girl with a brother and a couch.
She’s got a brother. A couch.
A sister locked in her bedroom.
And a mother on vacation.
Lord, don’t let her fall asleep.
Her brother’s got keys to her dreams.
He keeps them on a chain.
That now cuffs his wrists together.
Mommy doesn’t believe he did it.
But he’s left footprints on the insides of his sister’s eyelids.
And they’ve learned to walk without him and haunt her daily prayers.
And if you rub your fingers.
Ever so softly on her inner thigh.
She’ll stop you.
Having branded your fingertips.
With the footprints of her brother.
The disbelief of her mother.
And a sister who called her a slut for sleeping.
Lord, I’ve known sleeping women.
Women who have slept for lives at a time.
On sunny afternoons and purple evenings.
Women who sleep sound.
And live silently.
Some dreams never to be heard of again.
I’ve known sleeping women.
They’ve taught me to sleep having swallowed the moon.
Sleep till mid afternoon.
And yearn for the silence of night.
To sleep sound once again.
Painters of the wind.
Who know to open the window?.
Before closing their eyes.
Finding glory in the palette of their dreams.
She had no dreams that night.
The windows had been closed.
The worlds of her subconscious suffocated and bled.
Rivers of unanticipated shivers and sounds.
That were not sleep.
She was sound asleep.
And he came silently.
It wasn’t the sun in her eyes.
Nor the noise of children en route to school.
She woke to the rays of an ingrown sun.
Fungus that stung more than it burned.
A saddened school en route to children.
Who dare to sleep on a couch.
Exposed to their schizophrenic brother.
Only to wake with a new personality.
One that doesn’t trust as much as it used to.
And wears life jackets into romantic relationships.
Can’t stand the touch of fingertips.
Damn, was that marker permanent.
I hope she doesn’t press charges.
I hope they don’t press no more grapes into wine.
Because she might get drunk again.
And fall asleep.
Rise and shine my mother used to say.
Pulling back the clouds of covers that warmed our nights.
But the fleshy shadows of that moonless night.
Stored the venom in its fangs to extinguish the sun.
Rise and shine. But how can I?
When I have crusted cloud configurations pasted to my thighs.
And snow covered mountains.
In my memories.
They peak into my daily.
And structure my moment.
They hide in the corners of my smile.
And in the shadows of my laughter.
They’ve stuffed my pillows with over exposed reels of ABC after school specials.
And the feathers of woodpeckers.
That have bore hollows into the rings of time.
That now ring my eyes.
And have stumped the withered trunk of who I am.
I must remember.
My hands have been tied behind the back of another day.
If only I could have them long enough to dig up my feet.
Which have been planted beneath the soiled sheets.
Of a harvest that only hate could reap.
I keep trying to forget.
But I must remember.
And gather the scattered continents.
Of a self once whole
Before they plant flags.
And boundary my destiny.
Push down the warted mountains that blemish the soiled soul.
Before the valleys of my conscience get the best of me.
I’ll need a passport just to simply reach the rest of me.
For a lesser Gods bleak history..