Wednesday, June 18, 2014



Hate replaces the blood 
running from the heart to head.
It lingers in my toes,
compromised by my Raynaud's.
It settles in my fingertips;
and the hand warmers can't do their job.

Hate hovers on my tongue,
a communion wafer gone sour.
A litany, a chant, a mantra,
I repeat over and over again:

"I hate you."


Hate surges vermillion,
coalesces to blue,
of words frozen
like hard green peas
in plastic freezer bags
on swollen joints.

The hate sears my veins:
a myocardial infarction.
I can't move past the feeling,
and it strips the oxygen from my brain:
Cerebral anoxia killing cells.

Hate murders the muscle memory,
pumps cyanide to the very end of capillaries,
robbing life from heart cells.
The dead is alive in me.


Hate is a zombie life.
The dead walking,
dragging gruesome limbs,
tattered shredded skin, and lipless smiles
to concertina wire fences.

There I hang, bloodless, on razor edges.
A meat hook embedded in my sternum.
Intestines drooping in gangrene slime,
coating the wire of my cross.

I am hate crucified.

and there is no Resurrection
when hate replaces blood sacrifice.


Hate needs a retell.
A breath to kindle blue veins to scarlet,
on a body hung from a wooden cross.
Hate is a bruise fading
to newborn skin, bathed
in the water imbibed Word.

Hate needs an object,
a thing not human,
to correct fairy stories
of red shoes dancing
on a loaf of bread,
sinking in slime 
to the marsh woman's kingdom.


Hate is a changeling
left on a doorstep
for an unbaptized child
clenching iron words
in a baking oven.


The words are memories I hate.
I long to scrape 
them from my brain: a leucotomy
of my hate,
leaving me a truth:
Hate needs to be dead,
in my heart,
in my head.

My life on the cross
has already been done,
through a rip in the side 
and the holes in hands and feet,
in the blood and water
flowing from forever.