Poetry by Jami Kerrigan

Sleepless Mind.

1017

 

She slinks into my satin sheets

The floorboards,

The old wooden doors,

She is what makes them creak.

 

She whispers in the night,

Offering her fresh platter of fruit

and fears

sharp enough to strike through sunken eyes,

morphed, disguised and wrapped in purple hues.

Never hesitating to withdraw the hand that offers all that is 

sparkling new

falling into old habits, paired with 

something blue.

A proposal to bind us two.

 

She begins to lie to the unkind, to the wise, 

twisting her words to sparkle in the light.

Lure me into your saving insight!

Remind me who to trust, 

who is right?

who is the comfort I should seek before I deplete

become complete.

Becoming obsolete,

To be wound in chains

with barbed wire

laced in desire and the explicit need to feel pure.

To be scrubbed raw from my rough heels through to every thought 

I refuse to feel.

Or perhaps 

feel and fail to conceal,

for transparency is hanging on a shoulder of mine,

Unable to remove the cloak that displays all i want to hide.

 

Please, allow me to soak up dull sunshine and become blind 

To her screaming whites of eyes.

She preys on flesh and blood

A beating heart soon to be dull, soon to be unwound and 

Undone,

ripped from all belief as to what should have been said.

again she spins her golden thread

to strangle the next with a noose

that does not ever loosen nor 

Unwind,

It is now a place where you must confide.

This is what she sings to me

as she slinks into my satin sheets,

A lullaby to begin a sleepless night,

tossing and turning to find

She hides inside my sleepless mind.                     j.k.k

 

Wuu2

0518

 

To insinuate my flesh has scars

Would be to assume 

the sinews of my skin and bone have glued themselves into 

a clotted patch of brown 

which scratches my shin and bruises my knees.

Would be to assume

it does not indeed feel with each limb

a constant urge to bleed

The sting of antiseptic and the 

screaming attempt

to burn away the stain of hardship.

 

Would be to assume

that with each prodding question of “how are you

I do not feel my gut being scooped out like the bitter black marbles of a fleshy papaya

plump with the heat of brazil 

Yet I do

believe that scar is used incorrectly 

for my past never left a wound

it moulded mountains and depressions in the soil of my skin.

teaching the salt behind my eyes 

when to seek and when to hide,

where to look and where to

Find a body with a sense of self who can answer you in truth.

-you keep asking “how are you”.