peel back the skin,
and crack the skull:
hiding inside
you’ll find a crying little girl, unkempt and itty-bitty,
in a single room pooling with black ink
she finds herself suspended,
trying not to be scared,
trying to believe
that monsters aren’t real.
but every time
she steps outside,
the light shines brighter than any demon’s eyes.
her mind is filled
with funhouse mirrors
© AvenKain
James Tate Emulation Poem
I experienced a nightmare last night, and
in the dream I was nine months pregnant
and counting, my stomach bulging like an overstuffed chunk
of meat, I wouldn’t stop bleeding,
the floor kept sticking to my feet like suction cups,
and my breasts were sore at the thought.
“He should be arriving any time now,” the doctor said. “He?”
I said, shifting on gooey feet smeared red.
“The man burrowed in your abdomen,” he said.
I didn’t remember a man entering me, but
maybe that’s the irony of memory, or its saving grace,
all the same I was forced to watch a man split me
open, his face an entanglement of terror and awe and
I couldn’t even scream. Even in my own dream.
“Congratulations!” the doctor said, wiping off the baby’s head,
“You’re a mother.” “I’m not,” I said, and
in the morning my bed was cold and solely my own, my stomach flatter
than paper and just as easily torn. “I’m not,” I said, again
again and again
© AvenKain
I don’t look
into Mother’s mouth—
such pretty lips,
past the supple pink
she smells of decay.
Truths disperse on the wind,
I am lying
in a pool,
Mother’s drooling again.
Holdless hands
© AvenKain
Reflections & Play 