3/7/2018 Poetry by Mary Sims(your own) blood of the lamb Take sacrament as sacrifice and carve a message from it. Here, there is a body waiting. Let’s say: I’m writing about the violence / say the violence isn’t me / say there isn’t blood in my teeth / say there’s never been anything but blood in my veins. Say, a body is what we call it so let’s call it good & get lost in its violence– creation morphs into destruction the same story over & over, but tell me again: which came first? Violence, too, is what we make it, so this time let’s call it holy & watch chaos ignite. All blood runs the same, but all blood is not seen as the same. Say, it’s not for a lack of trying. Shed the skin of holy & you’ll find blood. Shed the skin of good & you’ll find blood. Find a body to carve a passage into & you’ll find blood. Ignore the stains on your bones & call this your greatest sacrifice: a message written in the bodies of others. mother may i say A father & animals dancing, let’s see if they know how to bite– & of course they do. It’s the first lesson anything with teeth learns. The first lesson anything dangerous learns is how to strike where it stays. The animals are jumping again & the father joins them in laughter. A mother in the forest & she’s watching, but her teeth are dulled & is this for me? Shadows build themselves up in her presents & gods cannot compare to this– to a mother’s rage nothing is equal. (listen and strike where it hurts– in the teeth & choke on shadows and mother, did you dull your own teeth for me? did you do this for me–) The boys dance with the animals, where laughter is abundant & this must be happiness and– sharpen your teeth before they see: don’t get caught. There are girls in the shadows filing down their teeth until their gums bleed– rounded out edges & no longer pink like girls should be: red is a mother color. The animals are biting again & they look like the boys do, indistinguishable: rabid and alive, but remember– the first lesson anything learns is how to hurt. The girls are in the shadows & dull teeth make good mothers & the boys– are laughing, again and they have never stopped. Motherhood is soaked in blood & the boys smile, all teeth. The animals dance & we cannot blame them. 70% chance of salvation and 30% chance that maybe I’ll feel myself again There are plenty of bodies, here. Pick one & call it the closest thing to home you can. Your body is not your body & you are not your own so find something you can claim and carve something from it. Make art out of flesh and craft silk from bone. Engrave worthy in all but the word. Write holy in blood but paint it on backwards so the angels don’t mistake your creation for their own. Do not create a name. Do not curse a body into being by giving it a title. Watching yourself watch yourself & it’s like looking from the outside in. Like smiling and watching it reflect off yourself & back. Fingers trace fingers but don’t leave a trace. The blood chips. Pretend it’s something lighter than it is. Pretend in here doesn’t translate to over there and that 30% means closer rather than further. So many names left to take & can you match each with the weight on their shoulders? Reach out & watch a body reaching back– you’ve forgotten what yours looks like when you’re not staring at it from the outside. ![]() Bio: Mary is an 18-year-old aspiring poet and writer who has recently been published in Kingdoms of the Wild and Moonchild Magazine. She is currently working towards earning her degree in English, and spends her days dreaming of writing beloved poetry and living in the mountains with her friends and family close by. Twitter: @rhymesofblue Comments are closed.
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