April arrives,
stealth and
as criminal,
your name is
chasing you.
Then, what is left?
A breastless mother,
a breathless father,
the awkward pauses between
all these syllables.
"Who are you?"
A chrysalis torn.
The first morning in April
so I can answer
anything,
and mean it.
I speak then
without consequence
and (shudder to think)
without guilt.
or
Before
April arrives.
Then what is left?
A breastless mother,
a breathless father,
the awkward pauses between
the syllables of my name.
"Who are you?"
A chrysalis torn.
The first morning in April
so I can answer
anything,
and mean it.
I speak then
without consequence
and (shudder to think)
without guilt.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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