The Manifesto

 

I have never loved a goddamn thing,

not even the little birdie fallen from nest,

broken wing―

Not beast I

will not eat you…

But I may watch passively

as you die.

 

No, I have never loved―

and I weigh about as much

as a tear.

Not monster,

I am just the only kid

who showed up at this birthday party.

No creature, my form

is something similar to your own.

Mother Nature did

nurse this first born

for she is the one

who says we all

die alone,

and I only listen,

only remember

the stranded siren’s song.

 

            *

 

These ten thousand year old bones

have seen too much extinction,

too fragile to bare the weight upon my breast―

the red streak of your morality,

your arduous fears, with the transparent excuse

that it is the color you love the best,

because I pray to a mad florescent queen,

and even if I hurt,

or was hurt,

or am the one to brandish the truthful word…

Even if I acknowledge

your fears are my own,

I will only ever speak French to your

Polynesian tongue

because that is the way of the dead

once crossed over all that remains

is the bit of cold in an empty room,

the rattle of previously expressed pain,

the scent of spilled perfume

still looking for an exit.

 

But pause,

take a moment to breathe.

Even manifestos have dot dot dots.

Even Hitlers have needs

to talk about beautiful flowers

if only to prove

the glass is still clear

or that one has finally managed

to see past the imprint of lips,

fingertips,

and microscopic cells

which cling like my own

denial.

 
© Coleen T. Houlihan

Published in Spare Change News, July 2006