UNDER HIS THUMB:
a woman, thread, needle with its eye filled.
Loss (now flat and stale). A large bottle of
something like whiskey. A memory. Bandage
pressed to a large bleeding wound, I am
somewhere in the scene when it begins
to fall into place. When the stagelights blink.
I am naked, flesh chattering nervously in
the only language it knows how to speak:
fear. I was made an awful painting, hung
with no noose to my neck. Photographed
brown, woman. Small and shaking. Less
than. Thread filling the eye of the needle
piercing through each pore. I am made
an awful pain-thing, unbearable
to the touch/ to the tale. I do not know
how to tell my mother where this poem
has been. She runs around– frantic
– with her fingers red: pricked.