Take a rib and just create



I am as still as the pages
of a Motel Bible,
black leather bound
left forgotten in the bottom drawer.
As dry and dusty as those unturned pages
slightly yellowed from age
my womb tattooed with the Book of Psalms
that echo in the hollow uterine space.

I am as quiet as a cup
my chipped rim and discoloured
insides
sitting solitary on a long forgotten shelf
as spiders use my porcelain womb
for a home,
spinning and weaving their webs
as futile as the parched ovary
that coughs up an egg
every dark moon.

I am as muted as the Wurlitzer
that sits dusty and unplayed
in the back of St. Gertrudes
longing for fingers to touch her keys
for music to spring to life inside
her dark and empty pipes
were even the mice no longer nest.

I pray, alone,
waiting vainly for words to fall
from your lips
like a salve to this aching hollowness.


And I remain
as silent, quiet and muted
as the faith you folded
into a hankerchief from your past
that you keep hidden in the back
of the bottom dresser draw.


2006-03-17 10:04 p.m.