Ours

December 2, 2023

The price of our bond is
to stare with wide eyes at the burning tree
as it disintegrates above, inexorably.
To bleed below,
until the rubble moves like sea.

To break bread with the threat of eruption,
who lives and breathes —
the faceless eighth member.

Eruption sounds, we know —
ring, goes the inferno,
delivering us from the hands of our prime movers.

Who came first —
the ghastly beast who eats among us,
or the feral father?

Perhaps the anonymous suspect was employed —
an agent provocateur of sorts,
by our beloved,
or a second spouse to the new bohemian —
commissioned to revive an old fantasy,
or to feed the barbaric hunger of a man gone gray.

A betrothal ceremony commences;
the bachelor fastens to the belt of the devil,
and dovetails into stupor.

Into our tent they stumble —
a provisional nursing station for maimed progeny.
The bride delivers gashes to my flesh.

Sons of exile demand
they lay down their weapons —
though the line between arms has fused.

“Where does the hand end and the sword begin?” they shriek.

The wedded dyad weeps at the words,
for steel protrudes
where once there were white wrists of dough.

The shadow escorts my beloved from me —
taut throat from a precarious air,
a measly shield of molecules.

My love turns, in exit —
silent, still —
sends the coveted gaze, we know:
a shout in our language —

Return home for the barter.

I secure fresh stitches over my wounds,
and dress in atomic quilts of cloth —
my prudent, charitable disguise.

Clothes that pledge Tireless Mercy,
when I am mute,
to say:

“Your majesty, I will never fatigue
from forgiving —
take this mercy at your feet!”

I visit the throne for my daily bread,
to sip what is offered
from the contaminated fountain of a royal gaze.

The taste of part-time endorsement is bitter,
but I know no other source.

In trade, I remain a parcel for facile merits —
an exonerating servant
for the sins of steel men.

Might I strip from this blood-soaked costume,
or untether my simper,
the fountain would surely dry.

When you begin to thirst, I suggest:
Hang head low, bend to kneel
at the foot of the altar.
Be not dismayed, as pant legs moisten with blood-
your veins will tighten, to barricade the flood.
Tie your lips upward. Nod.

Repeat the solemn vow, we know:

Omit all crimes against us
(as swiftly as they come)
Keep the father at his seat.

When I was a tiny bird,
kept in an unsullied nest,
my protectors made shelter from heralding winds —
but their mouths watered.

One morning, I woke in a pile of splinters
and chirped:

“Who dismantled our home in the trees?”

When I brought the elements to the bench,
they shook their heads in pity:

“Don’t you know?”
“Not us”—

No, it was morning dances made unholy,
and afternoons, delighting in a vile temper.
For the winds brought irreverence to our door.

Oh, Mother, Father beckoned him in.
So their touch, too, became peril.

Calluses form where there once were lesions.
Alas, I am fragile still —
Eruption sounds, we know.
Ring, goes the inferno.

I am the leader of the injured party,
for I fell first into a pitted earth.

So will I rise from the belly of rubble?

“By swimming!” I say.

Though if I weren’t on display, as your pioneer by day —
perhaps I would cede allegiance to the tree,
let rubble be rubble,
take flight — and be free.

A Note from Me:

“Ours” is a surreal meditation on inherited trauma, ritualized harm, and the psychological cost of forgiveness. Through domestic imagery, I wrote this poem to explore what it means to remain bound to systems- familial or otherwise- that demand everything in return for belonging.

This is one of my more layered and symbolically dense pieces. Writing it helped me articulate a kind of internal reckoning: between loyalty and autonomy, performance and truth. If the imagery feels overwhelming, that’s by design. This is a piece about systems that don’t let you breathe.