mother of the monk

Is it on the outside or is it the inside? Us is never and always and the discerning way of the eager eye denies. What is this watery reaction? Sink in it. It is especially tiresome. The water is light and the body is settled, down at the bottom. Ease these hips around that depth.

Depth is how she described it. Then like a ghost without a moan.. nothing. And then like a night without a daybreak.. nothing. I wanted that appointment with a mind like that. Outside longing.

Those weren’t tears all those years ago. It was excitement. I read those words and saw what I wanted, not what was there, falling like raindrops fresh from her excitement. I grip tighter through the curves and bends, leaning outside then in. That wasn’t remorse.. it was new and it was hers.

What is the word for me? What is the common word. The one I disguise, the one under mask? What is the question left unanswered, my hands over my hairless skin. My hair in the drain. Black like coffee my skin under my hands. Where is the temple that I might crawl in? Conversations with my mother and the genders increase. And the body splits three now maybe more. All those backwards written Bs.. and her hands drew blood from my faith in my inside, now running fluid across my lifetime.

My faith in a normal, my identity in threadbare weave. My faith in obtuse manipulation. My faith in the light and the light in the depth. My love in the jar placed in the back of the car. My heart in the fuel, ignited to dust.

So I am loving, with faith in my depths. I am water with heart in flames.

art credit: Man Ray, Lee Miller, 1930, Paris, France