Poetry by Jami Kerrigan
Sleepless Mind.
1017
She slinks into my satin sheets
The floorboards,
The old wooden doors,
She is what makes them creak.
She whispers in the night,
Offering her fresh platter of fruit
and fears
sharp enough to strike through sunken eyes,
morphed, disguised and wrapped in purple hues.
Never hesitating to withdraw the hand that offers all that is
sparkling new
falling into old habits, paired with
something blue.
A proposal to bind us two.
She begins to lie to the unkind, to the wise,
twisting her words to sparkle in the light.
Lure me into your saving insight!
Remind me who to trust,
who is right?
who is the comfort I should seek before I deplete
become complete.
Becoming obsolete,
To be wound in chains
with barbed wire
laced in desire and the explicit need to feel pure.
To be scrubbed raw from my rough heels through to every thought
I refuse to feel.
Or perhaps
feel and fail to conceal,
for transparency is hanging on a shoulder of mine,
Unable to remove the cloak that displays all i want to hide.
Please, allow me to soak up dull sunshine and become blind
To her screaming whites of eyes.
She preys on flesh and blood
A beating heart soon to be dull, soon to be unwound and
Undone,
ripped from all belief as to what should have been said.
again she spins her golden thread
to strangle the next with a noose
that does not ever loosen nor
Unwind,
It is now a place where you must confide.
This is what she sings to me
as she slinks into my satin sheets,
A lullaby to begin a sleepless night,
tossing and turning to find
She hides inside my sleepless mind. j.k.k
Wuu2
0518
To insinuate my flesh has scars
Would be to assume
the sinews of my skin and bone have glued themselves into
a clotted patch of brown
which scratches my shin and bruises my knees.
Would be to assume
it does not indeed feel with each limb
a constant urge to bleed
The sting of antiseptic and the
screaming attempt
to burn away the stain of hardship.
Would be to assume
that with each prodding question of “how are you”
I do not feel my gut being scooped out like the bitter black marbles of a fleshy papaya
plump with the heat of brazil
Yet I do
believe that scar is used incorrectly
for my past never left a wound
it moulded mountains and depressions in the soil of my skin.
teaching the salt behind my eyes
when to seek and when to hide,
where to look and where to
Find a body with a sense of self who can answer you in truth.
-you keep asking “how are you”.
