garments

i don't remember much from twelve years ago.
there is, of course, the sweet smell of sex
that ran up and down my navel and gathered pools
in my clavicle.
there are also the bells of laughter that
rang every hour before the children came in
to sleep.
but that was so long ago, only distant thoughts
to help pass the time.
i remember the first day that the bleeding
didn't stop, the second, third...
i can recall the first week, the second, third...
and still the first month, the second, third...
it wasn't until the third that the yelling began.
my fault, my fault.
must have been dirty, it must be from him.
i remember the first hit, the second, third...
and there were times that i thought i would
black out, but from pain or loss
i cannot be sure.
surely i thought i would die of shame.
after the first year, the second, third
it all seems to go a blur.
there were twelve, i can be sure of it.
i counted the hours like i counted the years.
in my ears echoed scorn, scorn, scorn.
i didn't have to pretend-
a stench of death overtook any lingering sweetness
my clavicle rotting, my navel undone.
i became undone.

hope drained along with the rest of me.
doctors had no cure and only
dirty bandages to cover dirty secrets.
i have not looked into the depth of an iris in twelve years.
i have not touched the back of hand,
nor felt the warmth of two.
twelve years is a long time, too long
to be without fumbling fingertips
falling down my spine.
i lived in the wishing well,
and ran out of wishes to be well.
the pints are leaving and i am dying.
desire feels like mocking despair
calling out into my window.
arise again and be forgotten!
arise again and be ashamed!
and i comply.
i am not alive anymore,
the sinking thoughts of i need this now
i was not ready to die, to give it all away
i was not ready to be done.

on the old, back road i see
the clouds of dust encircle and circle above.
the crowd is too messy to be a caravan.
i only see the town when its dusk and i
slip in and out. never to be seen.
the riot is growing and cheering.
son of david, have mercy on me.
messiah, messiah, messiah...
i came. i couldn't not come,
i came quickly quivering and tripping over
my old feet. and soon i was thrown to
the ground in the crowd.
face filled with dirt and still hiding
and crawling.
just get me to him.
my heart ached when i saw his cloak.
his face was easy to forget, at first glance.
it blended and blurred like a symphony.
arms barely extended, just touch his cloak.
be near me damnit and wrap your cloak
around me and i know you would.
just touch his cloak. just be near his breath.
it would wash me.

it washed me. it washed me like
purified lotus petals and the stem
cut through years of petrified dead weight.
the rush of release flooded me. it started
in my fingertips and ran into my veins
down through my navel and dammed the
flow and i was awake.
breathing halts ecstasy and he stopped.
who touched me?
who touched you? cover my face in dirt,
i am only dirt. i can only steal what i don't deserve
and i swear he'll take it back.
he turned and i fumbled to stand.
i could see the lines on his face.
and memorized the lines on his face.
and he stared into the depth of my iris
until i collapsed back into the dirt
scraped my knees and coughed
apologies.
i only needed your touch.

daughter, he spoke in his cedar voice.
his hands, more recongnizable still than his face,
held my tears. tenderly he lifted my recovering
body, never breaking his gaze.
daughter, you have been healed.
go now in peace.