déjà voodoo

like reading the bible every time yr heart-
breaks & expecting God to accept. Do you remember yr
grade eight self? Or the piercing you
got & let get infected in the name of the
father the mother & the spirit of whatever that plagued

your young & beautiful mind. Or like the feeling
of poesis in a dark & curious room
mimicking the resilience of dark & curious drinkers over fifty
& in their faces the holy trinity
except you do not have a son. Or like the argument

for morning afters as “social experiments”
rather than a series of slaps upon your tight-ass soul.   
Don’t lie to your mama or yourself: there are more than books, madame,
on your floor & what about them stains
& stains & even more stains, all in vain. 

& then sometimes it is the incredulous operatic
single tear that floats down your cheek swollen &
you worry you will smudge your Russian
red doll lipstick or pull your insanity apart,
matryoshka style. again & again you unfold

until each part of you struggles to breathe in the world
& yet you pretend there is something sensual
about deathdrive & still you flirt
with martyrdom aka the worst form of pride.
you want & you want & forget the shepherd

you prayed to all those years & more
significantly you give excuses for not writing
like being busy & your mediocrity is thus revealed
but you like to call it productivity & yet only you
know what it all really means: that you’re sick

& your cells are dying over & over
& they are replicating themselves in the image
of all that is unholy & suddenly your religion
becomes a source of pain.  still you rise, undeserving. 
& you fall a few times, continue, as father said you should. 

& then the pains grow small enough to get out
of bed with & eventually you are even okay
with pain & prefer it over no pain & this
is the only wisdom that does not come with age

but humility—the moment you pull out all that has destroyed you
until what remains is what you desire
and what you desire is what you give
& what you give is the will to live
& you want to live