Of the cold new country’ s industry-built rooms As you revoke the cottage cathedral that bore you, As you squeeze discomfort and forget your hymns: And you wish to know … And now you fall down the steps and every step after As you will never feel these steep floors again And you will never hum a comfort you wish you had found While this house vile altar cracks and cracks and breaks apart: And the walls are closing in.
Don’ t be
I told her I am sad, She said don’ t be. I told her I am the ocean, the river running, the northern Foyle ' s littered dead gore despair made wine, as you want more.
I told her I am uncomfortable, She said don’ t be. I told her my arms, my legs, my body’ s borders are crammed in homes as her daughter’ s dolls, ill fit like poppies growing on cathedral walls.
I told her I am starving, She said don’ t be. I told her to hear my stomach growling, to try acknowledge my pained skeleton as her teeth rip into my skin again.
I told her I am, She said don’ t be. And She left me as I was.
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