THE SWITCH PICKERS

 

she would never braid three

together the way

our aunts did for our cousins

but we’d always have to pick

our own and strip

the broad green leaves ourselves

blubbering spit and salt

even before the first

thin welts drew the blood

up close

welding lean hot lines

tanning the underside

of our young hides

that left no pulsing stains

of discipline minutes later

 

we grew to dread

summer months because of the supple

reach of a ripe green vine

that could lick us

like some poisonous lizard’s sticking

stinging tongue and reach

all the way from the pulpit

to whistle its own hymn

against our un-baptized flesh

 

but she was soft

her limber and disposable rods

were always merciful

in their swiftness

and stuttered over every stroke

her eyes never quite turning

the same color required

for the vintage

pre-meditated

methodical tortures

of her own home training

the remnants of which

she only ever spoke of

in huuuuuuuusssh

 

HEIRLOOM

 

in the old testament

prophets chose men

who found favor with the Lord

and anointed their heads

as a mark of divine rule

they drenched these common men

with oil from olives

and sweet-smelling herbs

until their blood turned

to dusk and forget-me-not

 

you give me a vial

of the same complexion

lassoed with gold lattice

it murmurs with organic oil

cold-pressed from olives

mingled with your sweet-scented prayers

to anoint

my living space

my temples

and everything I love

 

in this same manner

of prophets

your mother

her sister

their aunt

her mother