Testing Those Vulnerable Vertebrae

for Thanos, my herstory,
my never-born, and ‘that’ woman on Bus 56

the heart shaped blood spot.
nice touch, unborn

pain in the ass.
a pad too full to protect

my knickers. vermillion
toilet water singing Red’s song

in every tone that concept has
to offer. except pink.

this time, quietly
Grandma Elder slips herself
into my space on Bus 56.
i acknowledge her
space filling

my surreal recollections.
AIDs stolen, lymphoma ravaged,
still born, tumours eating
12 year old brains to death.
she hums.

rubs
painful hands like when
Maida didn't want us to hear
agony’s way of betraying
the spirit in

the shell. howls. twists. fills
diapers with shit-piss. now,
cramp ejected gooey garnet
lumpy lineage plops
into whatever toilet bowl

i can get to. begging
kinswoman - is this what we do when agony
dares to disrupt our dignity ?
toneless tunes? rocking
fixed smiles on silent

uplifted heads?
your twisting bony hands
my brick stained undergarment mausoleum.
diligent forbearance composing .

note less
vibrations. we rock.


hum. smile-share
age pains. crowned


by some hallowed
concrete nimbus.

our necks must hold.