(Poetry) Inheritance

in poetry •  last year

free-people-the-cabin-3.jpg

I washed your beaten face from the river spilling in me,
cleaned your bandages,
and re-weaved them from my skin.
I breathed new air in your lungs,
and broke-in your leather shoes.
So when you kissed me goodbye, straddling my open thighs,
I though you’re be back with riches,
and well-traveled kisses.
But instead, you came back with witches and nervous twitches,
with bloodshot eyes and accusing, darkened lies.

My wings unfolded like rusted pipes,
down-feathers of neglected childhood lives.
Like tears of ashen faith staining bedsheets
leaving me with nothing except
the taste of Triple Sec, on my teeth.

Chapped hands and chapped lips,
mittened fingers searching for my mother’s hips.
And I’ve met too many mothers who just didn’t give a fuck,
That were never good enough,
To stroke warm tummies at twilight,
To rustle feathered duvets in Dawn’s morning light.

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