| Martin Hickel USA PICTURE THIS the inside of a woman the barking of a bird beneath the screaming trees the idea of tomorrow not God made but fought for birth by small birth sparks thrown by gravity's chain what if Death rules the universe time racing energy and matter to charm the cold heart of space Love not kindness but sorrow turned round to the darkening sky VOLUNTEER The garden grows on its own carrots and beets coming up between the weeds sunflower blossoms of dried beads artichokes purple mouths with lips like Russian Thistle The only crop he tends now are smooth brown fingers bony and sharp twisted feet each toe an arthritic testament he gathers and carries naked to the bath She bore him babies all gone away one leaving without return her fondness for them not a thought not a feeling but the simple power to grow life Leaving so little left she barely floats in the tub as he washes her last silk texture of a girl The death of a child does not hurt more than anything it only hurts like nothing else CHILDING anyone who strikes a child is only repeating themselves pain the cheapest currency for abundant denial but children are struck every day sharp reward for subtracting what makes from what unmakes us better still they find out now remorse's lonely mantra teaching what a grim place before its too late harder for some than others shaking blackness from little skulls shaming sense into nonsensical bones frightening to show what could happen were the world as we made it childing small wonder makes pure escape release from pent up opposite building skills playing eating growing running watching reading deaf to shouts of soundless parents as if sound could stop them climbing mountains at whatever speed witnessed by trees free to flourish absent any knowledge other than their own FOR THE WATER though anything might hide it your opening is there where your mother made you the way sea mixed with wind makes a wave sky mixed with clouds makes a rain ants mixed with earth makes a city secret in warm dark ground heart muscle is only the end where she poured herself into you poisoned and ignored you too much fish frog mammal already becoming something else greed lust beauty knowledge power hunger to keep at an arm's length hunger to swallow mountains mountains to swallow valleys valleys to hide forests faces to hide trees anything that hides it shut tight inside you sad for the water she shed a wound that never heals open it always heals you open it can only give the way a spring gives shape to a pillow of stones turning round in a stream
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