the weeping water mill

the spinning wheel, the weeping water mill

lies down the street from father’s house.

you liked to idle by and watch it turn

creaking like a laboratory mouse.

​

 

but no—it wasn’t pleasant, pleasing;

if you remember, really

bring it back around—

​

 

picked yourself up by the nape of your neck

mother cat to the kitten, stretchy skin;

yours rips, draws blood, leaves scars

but you’re alive, and you’re up, and you’re back;

slime slithers up your legs, pulling at the hairs

dragged into the earth, dirt under your nails

you looked up and waited—for a moment.

​

 

the wheel still spins:

fear was not the answer.

​

 

bodies pile on top of yours

breathless, heaving, groaning

sex and blood, love and lust

​

 

disgust.

​

 

sacrifice your skin to mother nature

barely bearable, until it’s not

concluded that it is not worth the envy

recklessly forgot about despair.

​

 

an empty bedroom, sheets missing their mistress;

he was not the answer.

​

peace.

​

 

fires blazing under bridges,

underground a spark of indignation

licking their lips at your indulgence

burning as you watch

the wheel still spinning

you can’t find the answer—

​

 

but wait.

​

 

and as it goes,

you vehemently dance around the flames

moving, heaving, swerve

around the turns.

​

 

you’re crying, and you’re free.

​

 

red hot, angry; crying, you are free.

cold wet, fearful— crying, you are free!

​

 

walk the barren road of barricades

leave your trigger marks on empty roads

sense when someone dares to step upon them

heart panging and stomach set to blow.

​

 

tick, tick;

the mill weeps with you

wheels still spinning—you spin with them

the ashes rise as fairies in the empty sky

death omens, or visions of grace

​

 

and finally, you decide.