Crumble

She was Michelangelo’s David.
She was my Venus de Milo.
She was my goddess, the centerpiece to my world.
Her back tall, arms strong, eyes sure,
the words that spilled from
her lips were the vertical control that moved
my wooden arms, my painted lips.
They were truth.
But rains came.
Winds blew.
Snow froze and cracked
my stone goddess
until one day, I touched her and
all she was was gone.

Ventriloquist

I let you tear me open
down the middle and climb inside.
And like a fetus
you settled in
the pit of my stomach; you rearranged my
organs. You twisted my heart.
And every time I cried,
I let you take my
tears and make them yours.
I let you
scream for me.
You’d stick
your hand in my back and
dress me up in frills,
carrying me in your
purse in case someone you knew walked by,
so you could show them how well
you ventriloquize.

Rock-a-Bye, Baby

Nobody warned you
that once I left
the warm walls of your womb,
I would be your sacrifice
to this world;
that I was no longer yours to control.
I was destined to move
with the mountains, to walk
barefoot on the soil and let the soles
of my feet close all gaps between me
and the universe.

And yet you fight—loudly, violently, teeth bared—
to tell the cosmos I am yours.
My first unsteady steps, the first utterances
to tumble from my mouth, my every
achievement and failure
belong to you.
If you cannot have them, no one can,
not even me.

And so you destroy
me
slowly; blindly tearing me apart,
consuming me until
I am once again
completely, undoubtedly, a part
of you.