On Waking


April 2010
 
On Waking
 
Vomit and blood on a moldy rug
 coagulates in the cold.
I am and am not
a part in this apartment.
I drift between infomercials
and daytime soaps,
to wake cradled in satin.
Jesus at my head, waiting.
Seeing through stitched eyes
the solemn parlor music is
a steady shade of amber.
It plays the tune of my
life’s collage plastered
 in faded Polaroids.
Carried by mums and
 pink carnations
I am anointed with
a god I forgot.
I can feel the honesty
through the second stage of rigor.
Take the coins from my eyes
and tie a bell upon my finger.
 
 
 
 
 
Wealhtheow Wealhtheow
22-25, F
Aug 13, 2010