I want to be a DJ
at the shelter for abused women,
sing songs to net swordfish
from the eye’s bottom, drown sharks of pain
and fill the heart’s aquarium
with goldfish.
But the ears of abused women are
pits full of curses,
they are frightened of every scratch on word’s lips,
of a knife sharp as a tongue,
of the throat’s vacuum lined with silk-alike.
“Women, women,” I whisper to myself,
“I’m scribbled like a page torn out of your biography
and you are lines in the blues I’ll compose
in the alphabet of periods when you are nothing more
than flesh chucked out from hell’s butcher shops.”
TR:Shirly Someck