Devilwomen

We denied each other, I think.
You clipped my wings and I
became afraid of heights, would not
rise above myself to some elsewhere,
someplace hidden in the clouds
left to my imagination and thrashing
dreams, as I twisted in the sheets with
night sweats.

I plucked your feathers, one
by one, eyed the brilliant color
before tossing each into the gutter
where you slept your life away
among the paper cups, gum, ice-
cream wrappers and beer bottles.
You kept those lovely eyes shut tight
against that place in the clouds,
decided it never existed for anyone
real, no one you would ever know
or be.

I want to tell you this, Mother,
I want to tell you this one thing:
I know why you clipped my wings,
singed my feathers with all your
internal burnings you should not
have unleashed on anyone but yourself.
It was wrong,
but I see you clearly, see
this woman, white hot and disintegrating
with every year that slipped on by,
leaving you just the same as before
but older.

I understand that hollowness,
the hunger stitching
its strength through everything
you think
you feel
you know
how it makes this tight, snaking
scarf that coils around you,
suffocates all thought,
makes you try even harder
to break out, break up,
destroy everything in your way.

I am glad you clipped me,
glad you tried to mold me dull
and formless, like some dormant
star, glowing purple and cold.
You wanted me to be a goody girl
with strawberry scented hair
singing someday my prince will come.
Perhaps it is best you do not see
the darkness folded in the sleeves
of this soul, smoke and mirrors,
murmuring incantations
of devilwomen too free to live, too
loud to hear anything but their own
roaring hearts.

I am just as hungry
as you ever were,
old woman.