I fevered the whole night. My cells were being overcome;
I begged each one to stay.
In my head the song that played, Desmond Dekker
Stop That Train
I Want To Get Off,
over and over and over.
I yelled and pleaded for the train to stop. It didn’t.
My loves lapped at my toes
like sepia toned tidal waves
and I dreamt violent things:
a troll stealing my baby,
a homeless man getting bludgeoned,
my son being ripped from my arms by a crocodile, taking my arm also,
severing it at the shoulder.
I saw this happen to a mother monkey in a nature documentary. It apparently stuck with me.
I don't know why I see things like this.
How many have died? ten or twelve,
a dirty dozen: heart breaks, steel traps, cardiacs, cancer, murder.
That last one- murder? Its true. A girl I loved..... a lot.
She died a violent death, more violent than crocodile death.
I didn't see it but it’s on repeat like another song that wont go, another train that wont stop.
I find it everywhere, in the suit of every man I meet.
Women? No, just the men.
Persistence is the key to it’s survival because I am usually really good at beating things down.
False recitations of love and goodness,
breathe and repeat after me: love yourself before you can love him/them and know that life
is suffering its not your fault its not your fault it’s not your fault.
But it runs like miles of dark oppressor water.
Mississippi moon wont you keep on shining.
Moon I beg you and you never fix it.
God, everyone says you never existed.
I assumed you were gone,
get back here to fix this.
Now,in the form of a man,
big/little child shapes,
I am given another chance:
the nurturer,mother, the cleaner, cat feeder, the leader, the fucker,
Stop this train, I want to get off.
It does. Not gently.
My loves lap at my hair
pulling me into ink toned wreckage:
of husbands of children of sisters.