You remind me of that,
one of Michelangelo’s kind
but smaller in frame, pain’s
thievery, the disease, taking,
twisting muscles until
only the eloquence of sleep
realigns the pure curves,
the beautiful bones.
Mother Morphia also clears
your plate, the eyes of bitter blue
pale inside the tired crags
returning warmth from some
gibberish battle to your voice
I see old lovers in you, fallen warriors all
turned to the saints of tortured
children, their tattoos & piercings
clues to that fate there on white sheets.
Coming to we do not speak
of the darker phase.
We give the wounds to amnesia,
the tears for Mom to release, necessary,
& love you any way with the bait
You ask for a soda which I pass
to touch hands & there’s a memory
for dance in the club of our blood,
you & I testimonies smiling
for our tribe’s scriptures.
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published Outsider artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead