our heroes are conflicted
hanging cross-wise
riddled with choices
pock-marks on their skin
topographically hardened by
the spirit of humanity
from the instinctual urge to merge
with all its urgent need, the feast of senses,
those vital moments in the grace of salt-sweat
the sticky sand in her bathing suit
fingered open by an eager bull-dog marine
on her beach of girlish dreams, he'd
leave her there to shiver in anguish
bloody with catholic guilt
while the child she was, lay dying
she sacrificed herself
probing her wounds over 'n over
for some strength in the sore points
she couldn't avoid the larger mission
by going into caves of martyrdom
to float away on some dark ship of no return
she didn't understand social expectations
so became wrought by burden
and a loss for words
she'd refrain from back-room surgery
not knowing the cold-cut of stainless steel
nor redemption from her mothers religion
her blood retreated in shame
the lock was on the door
so she bore me in the secret fear she couldn't bear anymore
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