Poetry Night 1 of 3
Eating out of Hallowed Hands
I wish that I could be mild.
I wish that my world could unfold around me,
like flowers reach joyfully toward the sun.
But I am made of iron not of light.
My ancestors ate stone.
I am fierce in defense of my scars
and sometimes that ferocity leaves no room for mercy.
I stand alone,
a living cenotaph in brutal tradition,
and the dead whisper in my skull
reminding me of the bodies left behind.
There is no quarter.
There is never any quarter…
until I am quartered
my drawn soul lying in pieces,
sweet meats for the greasy-lipped delectation
of my ragged band of spirits
and furious, hungry gods.
I am like bone bleached in the fury of the funeral pyre,
covered with ash.
I am no longer hollow