--THE SKY IS FALLING AND I’M DOWN HERE WITH MY ARMS WIDE OPEN

What Did It

It won’t be a car or

blade or bullet

that kills me. 

I’m already dead. 

Just look at all the

dead flies in my eyes. 

I died on a M W F. 

I died when the

grass grew talons. 

I died choking in

a shallow mudpuddle. 

I died when your grasp

became ungrasped and

the sun turned

its back on me

for the last time.

Penance

My skin wept red then,

those troubled pores

stretched tight as a kite

straining in the wind.

My useless bones sat drying

in a mop bucket rarely used.

My heart had long been seared
in a scorched frying pan.

All around ransom notes

flapped and squalled

while remaining unread. 

Someone said they were sorry.

Someone claimed our guilt.

But Mother

still in her night coat

shot down the sun again

as she put out her lit cigarette

on my sister’s upraised cheek.

What the Attic Knows

Every night I go

back to the attic where

each chained chest recounts  

the rumors of murders

committed in this house,

no one ever charged,

no one an ounce regretful,

though all of our bloody footprints

lead in the same direction.