Dying is an active verb. Always dying, never dead, always here, always waiting, Is anyone coming, even, I am always holding out a hand, empty. Is this An Art that I do not recognize, betrayal, betrayed, this is Like drowning in dry air, choking on unkept promises, and still, I think that women are responsible for Everything that happens to them. I cannot break myself of this guilt that I betrayed myself Else it would be too startling to my Catholic disposition. The witch daughter of a Catholic is still Catholic. As a child I hyper-fixated on the unwanted fools of the bible, Mary Magdalene’s name like a communion wafer on my tongue, holy. Dying is an active verb, betrayal, a last rite. Do you think there is a gospel of Judas? Does he deserve It? How close was he to sainthood when it comes to ruining ourselves we do it Exceptionally well perhaps Judas had plausible deniability, but still
I think that women are responsible for everything that happens to them, otherwise why when we mention traitors Do we always name Eve before Judas? I still cannot make my hand into a fist So I wait here, palms open and It’s still my fault that you slipped through my fingers. Betrayal Feels like the coin that you left on the floor when you took your pants off. The glint of copper on a bedroom floor is Like Hell. And I, a smiling woman, was too much or not enough. It was my fault. Adam’s apple bobs in your throat. You will never understand that it’s always the woman who’s the whore. What Do I do when you don’t even know what you’ve done. All of my friends say that I give you too much credit, but I cannot bring myself to be as angry as I deserve to be. Who will tell me what we deserve I am So tired of being an empty womb. Being wanted is the only time It Feels real. I am all nurture, where is the nature in that? I Guess You Could Say I’ve A Call. Ash, ash— and smoke. A fireplace full of cinders will not die out as long as it receives enough oxygen and You won’t leave me alone,
Poke And stir. There is no Flesh, no soft breast to cry on I am nothing but Bone, There Is Nothing there. Will you leave me alone, but I do not want to be lonely I want to be your favorite second choice. There are coins in your hand and there is a charge for touch, for looking. Is it sacrilege to suggest that Jesus loved Judas? Do you think Judas would’ve done it for free? I don’t know what was in it for you, I have Nothing Left to give, I gave up on silver in exchange for poetry I need this for my art, perhaps. I wish you’d leave me alone long enough to hate you. I think I have it in me to but We talked before I finished this poem I don’t think I can finish it now, not really, not ever. This is self-betrayal and I Am digging for pocket change. Here I am in the confessional Looking in the mirror saying Et tu
But We talked before I finished this poem And I have betrayed my own anger in exchange for a soft epilogue. I’ve had time to think and Maybe Judas wanted to be good. Maybe Mary deserved a gospel. Maybe, I won’t let you get rid of me yet because We see the same traitor in the mirror. And Judas, who did you sell out, in the end?