The Book Speaks
By Subhaga Crystal Bacon
I cannot put my memories in order.
The moon just wrecks them every time.
—Marosa Di Giorgio, The History of Violets, XVIII
I am a jaw pried open,
old barber's pole red
and white striped, rough tools,
a little blood and pain. Then
release. Who needs Novocain?
A hit of bourbon. Quiet room.
Trees with their promise of relief: hung.
Jung said tooth loss means transition.
Beyond transitory, evolving.
I'm the place you come to unlock
what time and your mind buried
so deeply, you had to travel
the mycelium highway to reach it.
Here I find you. Innocent.
Vessel of shame and rage.
I open you. Unbutton your genes.
You are warrior. Let loose your hair.
Take up the space you crave.
Now, do you see?
You can love what you are
without flinching.
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