Beautiful Black Flowers
(I wrote this piece during the year after my mom died and I was off meds, could not pay my bills on my foreclosed home, and spent my days talking to men around the world on porn sites. Thanks.)
Every house on my street is neat
And green and trim and linear
Like something out of a Tim Burton
Or John Hughes film.
But I imagine the grass in my yard,
Dry and yellow and overgrown,
To be opening its million tiny mouths,
Thirsty. Water, please.
I am female. This morning I am ripe,
I smell of blood and longing
And womanly things. I burn
And melt in adoration.
Surely everything I touch
On my destination within this
Quiet house must be scorched.
There must be a million tiny black marks
Of my strange consciousness
My mother's ashes lie beneath
My brother's bathroom sink.
I ache to sift my hands through them.
Mommy. I have questions.
Do you have answers.
I feel like a mother doting on children
Who secretly despise her
And can't wait to leave the house.
My heart races in my chest.
I hear a thousand times a day,
Help me. Mommy.
Last night I dreamed
I had a thousand sons.
They were somehow all immigrants,
Taking a boat to America
To begin a new life.
I stood on the pier, waving,
I wanted to speak but my voice
Don't forget me, I cried out in my head,
Don't forget me because I loved you.
But their heads were already
Turned away, something new
And exciting awaited them.
Now, beautiful black flowers of mold
Blossom on the walls.
There is always a taste in my mouth,
Some essence that lingers.
I wonder if little things have taken root
Inside my brain and slowly, softly fester.
I smell of things right and not
Quite right. Perfume from yesterday,
That strange metallic scent of woman.
It jars and snags the air.
It's a fecund smell, it's rich
In something fertile and lush and full.
But it's stale, its purpose is finished.
Every month something leaves my body That could have been human.
For some reason things are glitched.
There are skips and bumps in nature.
Nothing human will ever come
From me again.
I will begin to move now.
It is automatic, autonomic, it churns
And clanks into gear without thought
Or much programming.
I think I can hear the grass today.
It's so thirsty. Please, it screams,
And all the voices from a million
Tiny mouths are cracked and parched.
A million tiny answering mouths
Inside me are opening
Like horrible flowers,
Trying to find their voice.
I'm so thirsty, they cry.
Written by toniscales
Go To Page