I want to sing
the strains that stem
from the strains of living.

My lips
will be
the earth’s breast opening
to pour forth pain
from orifices
so dry
that water only serves
to hurt them

And
every passage of air
from lung to tongue
should carry
lacerations:
From the backs of slaves
From the veins of junkies
From the minds of the tortured

See
I want to sing you a hymn
like Dinah Watts
sang on Sundays.

Every week
I’d watch her lips
looking for secrets…
Because
somehow
the air, the dust, the gloss
upon her lips
must hold
a direct link
to ancient suffering
and future pain

Even her silence
was desert wind
blowing over
decaying bodies in distant lands

Then…
She sang Amazing Grace
...

Cataclysmic catastrophes
Unrequited love pangs
Genocide
Suicide
Mass
lynchings
Rape
Abortion
Child slavery
Internal displacements
sponsored by multinationals
Tears, sobs and sighs
would come
tumbling
from her open voice.

Pain stripped down
like old wallpaper
scraped and scrubbed
to reveal
pure soul.
Soul that soared
with the organ’s
crescendo.

Eventually
I found the secret.
On her
lower
lip.
A bruise.

And my seven year old
hand reached
for my mother’s
when I saw the man
beside her
with nasty curl
in his fist

It was HIM.
Every Sunday
she raised her voice
and sung HIM.
She crooned away
all cruelty
so she could endure
this man
another Monday.

And
I can’t sing
hymns like Dinah Watts
because
I can’t sing
HIM.

So
I’m telling
her
Story.