|
Fetish |
My angers rise like fire
fingers, feeling
for a ceiling lick and burn, air
to make them
bigger by the gulp.
My angers
are like fetish dolls,
ebony carved with a hint of red
like blood. Have hammered nails
four inches long locked
into every part. My dolls
sit in a row, my psyche's
chorus line
of basic drives, the darkest kind
ramped up and pushing, pushing
at a flap of feeling
torn away.
I'll find the one responsible
and pound another nail. But lately I can't help
but be afraid
that if they ever wanted to
they'd turn on me
and I don't think
a hollow-jacket bullet
would take
them down.
copyright 2005
Karen Corcoran
Dabkowski |
