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

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