Pinkass Poem
Site
You sit in my kitchen and talk about clearing my shit
away, my holes and pinkass habits
as a two-month old, and now. My body
freezes and softens at the same time
as you speak of it,
becoming white putty or cut pig
(bastey flesh losing the tense, the bony verb)
that doesn’t know whether it has a mind.
Your hands
patting me,
confirming
“my relative formlessness,” you say,
prodding my skull and finding
scooped spaces, sunk damp dents.
My ready-bending thighs beneath
tight thumbs,
my little infinite
capacity to bear
batterings, to be toughened, shaped by
blows. You always joked
with me that you were God.
Owning me
and my body
like the batter and pan
like the means of production
like the stove and fresh Spam.
Beating me where I am.
So, I know I just said I was taking a break, but I recently rediscovered this poem from my 20s that I wanted to share with you. Some more poems will probably follow soon. I welcome your comments! DM
Your upbringing and mine might share more than one weird HS. "I could kill you and make another one like you," my dad told me.
The power of one over another is so blatant here... Sad and enraging.