can opener

Solomon sanctimoniously split my spine, just in time, for what remained in me to be spared the crack, like a wishbone; those greasy fingers, tearing with incisors at what bits still have flesh. there are no winners for whichever part you boast. fragments hold only a bitter woman in pain. burnishing your cool khaki lipstick lips, you sip down a $3 dollar foamy latte; i've been there, with more money than sense. drive like a fiend to your next moneymaking adventure, my child. i remember those days, now alone with screaming neurons of muscles that once paved your way. that's what moms do. mine taught me how to make perfect pie crust and have good manners. (i suck at making pies, thank you) her insecurity taught me to be afraid of bridges and people of color, with mom's dry whistle sucking sounds. In reply, i immersed myself in cultures of colors and language, now my own, tangling legs and words to spite. i get it, why you push against me. it's safe to push against giant marshmallow cream fluff unconditional mom love. neglect and disdain are absorbed. remembering the play acts of your life, one can't help but be proud, despite scenery change. but, and there will always be a "but", one tires in a dark vacant theater, alone. glimmers flicker you come to an end of this self fulfilling prophecy before my timeline's entropy is complete. the gravity of pain pulls at my iron dust limbs. it was a joy when you were born in the same bed you were conceived. who needs an epidural when you have love? maybe your voice will filter radio wave by. shadows pass along walls as they tell the time to those who cannot speak. i can not speak to you under threat you will detonate that wired vest; losing another chance at your love. chilled by time's dark, dripping stone walls, as an atheist, i wish at the bottom of this well: "For Christ's sake, throw me a quarter!"



©  ruth follmann