Third Ghazal for the Men Who Fired Me When I Was Suicidal

Soften! you praise-joked to those you’d kill: your little christs—
Us two want-women who want-praised like good little christs.

We preach-purchased and sliced-soft for your knickknack-children.
Washed with blood-gift want, we were innocent little christs.

Be sweet, be glass, be should—not want, you praise-joked to us.
We’d preach-purchased and sliced—we were deluxe little christs.

You wanted children-knickknacks, sliced empty, soft-glass sweet:
Worst possible timing to stop should-ing, little christs.

Sweet-men came preach-purchasing and trash-slicing us two.
She’s giving birth! I preached. She’s the best of little christs!

So glass-men preach-purchased her want-body away first.
I don’t know where you trashed her, kindest of little christs.

You saved me! I preach-purchased and sliced for softened-years.
Should-men pretended they’d never kill sweet little christs.

But when I once more chose the worst possible timing,
Sweet-men praise-joked: You’re joke-glass, worst of all little christs.

While preach-purchasing my body away, you praise-joked:
With sadness, I must inform you: goodbye, little christs.

Glass-men preach-purchased my want-body into the trash:
Failed children-knickknack. Fuck off, failed girl of little christs.

Here’s her body—sweet, glass, should: a sliced, empty knickknack.
You kill us while preaching how much you love little christs.

With sadness, I must inform you: I bought you a gift—
Worst possible timing, worst possible little christs!

With sadness, I must inform you: I’m with you always
To wash-haunt you men-joke knickknacks, my sweet little christs.

I rise from the trash with my want-blood to wash should-men—
To slice and soften you, Erra’s stupid little christs!

Ghazal for Three Women I Forgive

Thank you, mother, aunt, sister of lush sea-dark:
Dreaming me, you breathed my face for the ripe-dark.

You showed me how to soft-hide from the white-rough,
Telling me stories of the lush-warm sea-dark.

Your face—sea-soft books of deep-soft mothers—said,
There’s no dead-rime in you; just breathe the sea-dark.

You held me in your sea-cradle labyrinth,
But you left me with white-rough, which hates soft-dark.

You’re tall, but your warming night-rich is taller.
Out of dead-rime you drew me under the dark.

Your hands—sea-rich books of rich-breathing aunts—said,
There’s so much lush-warm to breathe in our sea-dark.

We held hands in your sea-cradle labyrinth,
But you left me dead-rimed, for your rich-ripe dark.

When you night-breathed me away from the white-rough,
You dressed me deep, ripe-lush in the warming dark.

Your voice—sea-fat books of night-fat sisters—said,
The white-rough dead-rimes you; just breathe the sea-dark.

We laughed fat in your sea-cradle labyrinth,
But you left me where dead-rime hides lush fat-dark.

Thank you for reading me books of labyrinths:
They showed me your ripe-faces in the sea-dark.

Soft, rich, fat still: I lush-dreamed I forgave you
And Erra found your deep sea-cradle: the dark.