Genevieve In October

Frenchman’s Cove, Jamaica

Even the name for her
is violence–
like an old knife
ripping out the tongue:
whore.

Something is piled in her
where it’s not supposed to be
and something left
uncovered.

Not long ago,
when she was very young,
an accident happened:
while she was still learning how to use it,
she opened the door
of her body–
but just a bit too wide.
And through that thin crack
came flocks of eagles and hawks
and owls:
all desperately hungry.

They chewed at her, inside.

But like a girl would,
she opened her cut-up heart
to them.
And soon became used to,
and soon after, needed,
that endless traffic
of talon
and blood-filled beak.

When I look at her now,
biting at her broken
fingernails
her red underwear all undone,
I see a trembling thing, half-born,
crazed.

But from beneath her misshapen eyes, another,
very wise being watches.
And that one remembers exactly
what it came here
to learn:
meekness,
humility through humiliation.

So when the shadow of a vulture
crosses that sacred,
suddenly moist line between outside
and in,
she smiles to herself,
 secretly:

Isn’t she, after all,
one of those lucky few
who will inherit this unfathomable ball
of steam and laughter?